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• ' ^acwiT* 



HEREWARD THE WAKE,. 



"LAST OF THE ENGLISH." 



HEREWARD THE WAKE, 



"LAST OF THE ENGLISH." 



BY 

THE REV. C. KINGSLEY, 

AUTHOR OF "WESTWARD HOl" "TWO YEARS AGO," ETC. ETC. 



IN TWO VOLUMES. 



VOLUME IL 



MACMILLAN AND CO. 

1866. 

\The Right of Transla tion and R eproduction is reserved.] 

OXFORD 



LONDON 
R. CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOR, PRINTBKS, 

BRBAD STRBBT HILL. : 

] 
I 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER I. 

TAGS 
HOW HEREWA&D WAS MADE A KNIGHT AFTER THE FASHION 

OF THE ENGLISH I 



CHAPTER II. 
HOW IVO TAILLEBOIS MARCHED OUT OF SPALDING TOWN . 25 

CHAPTER III. 

HOW HEREWARD SAILED FOR ENGLAND ONCE AND FOR ALL 38 

CHAPTER IV. 

HOW HEREWARD GATHERED AN ARMY 48 

CHAPTER V. 

HOW ARCHBISHOP ALDRED DIED OF SORROW 76 



vi Contents. 



CHAPTER VI. 

PAGB 
HOW HEREWARD FOUND A WISER MAN IN ENGLAND THAN 

HIMSELF 83 



CHAPTER VII. 

HOW HEREWARD FULFILLED HIS WORDS TO THE PRIOR OF 

THE GOLDEN BOROUGH 100 



CHAPTER VIII. 

HOW THEY HELD A GREAT MEETING IN THE HALL OF ELY 135 

CHAPTER IX. 

HOW THEY FOUGHT AT ALDRETH I43 

CHAPTER X. 

HOW SIR DEDA BROUGHT NEWS FROM ELY 1 54 

CHAPTER XI. 

HOW HEREWARD PLAYED THE POTTER; AND HOW HE 

CHEATED THE KING 165 

CHAPTER XII. 

HOW THEY FOUGHT AGAIN AT ALDRETH I93 



• 



Contents. vii 



# 



CHAPTER XIII. 

7AGB 
HOW KING WILLIAM TOOK COUNSEL OF A CHURCHMAN . 20$ 



CHAPTER XIV. 

HOW THE MONKS OF ELY DID AFTER THEIR KIND . . . 229 

CHAPTER XV. 

HOW HERSWARD WENT TO THE GREENWOOD 249 

CHAPTER XVI. 

HOW ABBOT THOROLD WAS PUT TO RANSOM 265 

CHAPTER XVII. 

HOW ALFTRUDA WROTE TO HEREWARD 284 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

HOW HEREWARD LOST SWORD BRAINBITER 319 

CHAPTER XIX. 

HOW HEREWARD CAME IN TO THE KING 325 

CHAPTER XX. 

HOW TORFRIDA CONFESSED THAT SHE HAD BEEN INSPIRED 

BY THE DEVIL 33S 



viii CmHents. 



CHAPTER ^Xi. 

PACK 

HOW SAKL W^THEOP WAS MADE A SAINT 359 



CHAPTER XXIL 

HOW HE&EWA&D BEGAN TO GET HIS SOUL'S PRICE . . . 367 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

HOW DEEPING FEN WA$ DRAINED 39$ 






HEREWARD THE WAKE, 



"LAST OF THE ENGLISH." 



CHAPTER L 

HOW HEREWARD WAS MADE A KNIGHT AFTER THE 

FASHION OF THE ENGLISH. 

A WILD night was that in Bourne. All the folk, free 
and unfree, man and woman, were out on the streets, 
asking the meaning of those terrible shrieks, followed by 
a more terrible silence. 

At last Hereward strode down from the hall, his drawn 
. sword in his hand. 

"Silence, good folks, and hearken to me, once and 
for all. There is not a Frenchman left alive in Bourne. 
If you be the men I take you for, there shall not be one 
left alive between Wash and Humber. Silence, again !'* 
— as a fierce cry of rage and joy arose, and men rushed 
forward to take him by the hand, women to embrace 
him. " This is no time for compliments, good folks, but 

VOL. II. B 



■2 Hereward 

for quick wit and quick blows. For the law we fight, 
if we do fight ; and by the law we must work, fight or 
not. Where is the lawman of the town?*' 

" I was lawman last night, to see such law done as 
there is left," said Pery. "But you are lawman now. 
Do as you will. We will obey .you." 

" You shall be our lawman," shouted many voices. 
« I % Who am 1 1 Out-of-law, and a wolf's head." 
" We will put you back into your law, — we will give 
you your lands in full husting." 

" Never mind a husting on my behalf. Let us have a 

ihusting, if we have one, for a better end and a bigger 

than that Now, men of Bourne, I have put the coal 

in the bush. Dare you blow the fire till the forest is 

.a-flame from south to north 1 I have fought a dozen 

of Frenchmen. Dare you fight Taillebois and Gilbert 

of Ghent, with William Duke of Normandy at their 

back 1 Or will you take me, here as I stand, and give 

me up to them as an outlaw and a robber, to feed the 

crows outside the gates of Lincoln 1 Do it, if you will 

It will be the wiser plan, my fiiends. Give me up to 

l)e judged and hanged ; and so purge yourselves of the 

villainous murder of Colbert's cook — ^your late lord and 

master." 

** Lord and master] We are free men !" shouted the 
holders, or yeomen gentlemen. "We hold our lands 
from God and the sun." 



IThe Wake. 



« 



You are our lord," shouted the socmen, or tenants. 
** Who but you ? We will follow, if you will Iqad ! " 

"Hereward is come home!" cried a feeble voice 
behind. " Let me come to him. Let me fee! him." 

And through the crowd, supported by two ladies, 
tottered the mighty form of Surturbrand the blind Viking. 

" Hereward is come," cried he, as he folded his master's 
son in his arms. " Ahoi ! he is wet with blood ! Ahoi ! 
he smells of blood ! Ahoi ! the ravens will grow fat now, 
for Hereward is come home ! " 

Some would have led the old man away: but he 
thrust them oflf fiercely. 

"Ahoi! come wolf! Ahoi I come kite! Ahoi! 
come erne from off the fen! You followed us, and 
we fed you well, when Swend Fork-beard brought us 
over the sea. Follow us now, and we will feed you 
better still, with the mongrel Frenchers who scoff at the 
tongue of their forefathers, and would rob their nearest 
kinsman of land and lass. Ah6i ! Swend's men ! Ahoi ! 
Canute's men ! Vikings' sons. Sea-cocks* sons. Ber- 
serkers' sons all ! Split up the war-arrow, and send it 
round : and the curse of Odin on every man that will 
not pass it on! A war-king to-morrow, and Hildur's 
game next day, that the old Surturbrand may fall like a 
free holder, axe in hand, and not die like a cow, in the 
straw which the Frenchman has spared him." 

All men were silent, as the old Vikijig's voice, 

B 2 



"4 Hereward 

cracked and feeble when he began, gathered strength 
from rage, till it rang through the still night air like a 
trumpet blast 

The silence was broken by a long wild cry from the 
forest, which made the women start, and catch their 
children closer to them. It was the howl of a wolf. 

" Hark to the witch's horse ! Hark to the Tson of 
Fenris, how he calls for meat ! Are ye your father's 
sons, ye men of Bourne % They never let the grey beast 
call in vain." 

Hereward saw his opportunity, and seized it He well 
knew that there were those in the crowd, as there must 
needs be in all crowds, who wished themselves well out 
of the business ; who shrank from the thought of facing 
the Norman barons, much more the Norman king ; who 
were ready enough, had the tide of feeling begun to ebb, 
to blame Hereward for rashness, even^though they might 
not have gone so far as to give him up to the Normans ; 
who would have advised ^some sort of compromise, paci- 
fying half-measure, or other weak plan for escaping 
present danger by ftitiu-e destruction. But three out of 
four there were good men and true. The savage chant 
of the old barbarian might have startled them somewhat, 
for they were tolerably orthodox Christian folk. But 
there was sense, as well as spirit, in his savageness ; and 
they growled applause as he ceased. Hereward heard, 
and cried : 



The Wake.. S 

**The Viking is right! So speaks the spirit of our 
Others; and we must show ourselves their true sons. 
Send round the war-arrow, and death to the man who 
does not pass it on ! Better die bravely together than 
falter and part company, to be hunted down one by one 
hy men who will never forgive us as long as we have an 
acre of land for them to seize. Pery, son of Surturbrand, 
you are the lawman. Put it to the vote 1 " 

"Send round the war-arrow," shouted Pery himself; 
and if there was a man or two who shrank from the 
proposal, they found it prudent to shout as loudly as did 
the rest 

Ere the morning light, the war-arrow was split into 
four splinters, and carried out to the four airts, through 
all Kesteven. If the splinter were put into the house- 
father's hand, he must send it on at once to the next 
freeman's house. If he were away, it was stuck into his 
house-door, or into his great chair by the fire-side, and 
woe to him if, on his return, he sent it not on likewise. 
All through Kesteven went that night the arrow-splinters, 
and with them the whisper, " The Wake is come again ; " 
till, before mid-day, there were fifty well-armed men in 
the old camping-field outside the town, and Hereward 
haranguing them in words of fire. 

A chill came over them, nevertheless, when he told 
them that he must at once return to Flanders. 

" But it must be," be said. He had promised his 



& Hereward 

good lord and sovereign, Baldwin of Flanders, and his 
word of honour he must keep.. Two visits he must pay 
ere he went ; and then to sea. But within the. year, if 
he were alive oh ground," he would return, and with him 
diips and men, it might be with Sweyn and all the power 
of Denmark. Only let them hold their own till the 
Danes should come, and all would be well. So would 
they show that they were free Englishmen, able to hold 
England against Frenchmen and all strangers. And 
whenever he came back he would set a light to Toft, 
Manthorpe, and Witham-on-the-hilL They were his owti 
farms, or should have been; and better they should 
burn than Frenchmen hold them. They could be seen 
far and wide over the Bruneswold and over all the fen ; 
and then all men might know for sure that the Wake 
was come again. 

**Ahd hine-and-forty of them," says the chronicler, 
"he chose to guard Bourne," (seemingly the lands which 
had been his nephew Morcar's,) till he should come back 
and take them for himself. His own lands, of Witham, 
Toft and Manthorpe, Gery his cousin should hold till 
his return; and they should send what they could off 
them to Lady Godiva at Crowland. 

Then they went down to the water and took barge^ 
and laid the corpse therein ; and Godiva and Hereward 
sat at the dead lad's head ; and Winter steered the boat, 
and Gwenoch took the stroke-oar. 



T%e Wake, f 

And they rowed away for Crowland, by many a mere 
and many an ea ; through narrow reaches of clear browtt 
glassy water; between the dark-green alders; between 
the pale-green reeds j where the coot clanked, and the 
bittern boomed, and the sedge-bird, not content with its- 
own sweet song, mocked the notes of all the birds^ 
around; and then out into the broad lagoons, where 
hung motionless, high over head, hawk beyond hawk^ 
buzzard beyond buzzard, kite beyond kite, as far as eye 
could see. Into the air, as they rowed on, whirred up* 
great skeins of wild fowl innumerable, with a cry as. 
of all the bells of Crowland, or all the hounds of the 
Bruneswold ; while clear above all their noise sounded the 
wild whistle of the curlews, and the trumpet note of the 
great white swan. Out of the reeds, like an arrow, shot 
the peregrine, singled one luckless mallard from the 
flock, caught him up, struck him stone dead with one 
blow of his terrible heel, and. swept his prey with him= 
into the reeds again. 

"Death! death! death!" said Lady Godiva, as the 
fbathers fluttered down into the boat and rested on the 
dead boy*s pall. " War among man and beast ; war on. 
eaxth ; war in air ; war in the water beneath " as a great 
pike rolled at his bait, sending a shoal of white fish flying 
along the surface. " And war, says holy writ, in heaven 
above. Oh Thou who didst die to destroy death, when 
will it all be over 1" 



8 Hereward 

: And thus they glided on from stream to stream, until 
they came to the sacred isle of " the inheritance of the 
Lord, the soil of St. Mary and St Bartholomew; the 
most holy sanctuary of St. Guthlac and his monks ; the 
minster most free from worldly servitude; the special 
almshouse of the most illustrious kings ; the sole place 
of refuge for any one in all tribulations : the perpetual 
abode of the saints; the possession of religious men, 
especially set apart by the Common Council of the 
kingdom ; by reason of the frequent miracles of the most 
holy Confessor, an ever fruitful mother of camphire in 
the vineyards of Engedi ; and by reason of the privileges 
granted by the kings, a city of grace and safety to all who 
repent." 

As they drew near, they passed every minute some 
fisher's log canoe, in which worked with net or line the 
criminal who had saved his life by fleeing to St. Guthlac, 
and becoming his man forthwith ; the slave who had fled, 
from his master's cruelty; and here and there in those 
evil days, the master who had fled from the cruelty of 
Frenchmen, who would have done to him as he had 
done to others. But there all old grudges were put 
away. They had sought the peace of St Guthlac ; and 
therefore they must keep his peace ; and jget their living 
from the fish of the five rivers, within the bounds whereof 
was peace, as of their own quiet streams ; for the Abbot 
and St Guthlac were the only lords thereof, and neither 



The Wake. 9 

summoner nor sheriff of the king, nor. armed force of 
knight or earl, could enter there. 

At last they came to Crowland minster : a vast range 
of high-peaked buildings, founded on piles of oak and 
alder driven into the fen — ^itself built almost entirely of 
timber from the Bruneswold; bams, granaries, stables, 
workshops, stranger's hall, fit for the boundless hospitality 
of Crowland; infirmary, refectory, dormitory, library, 
abbot's lodgings, cloisters ; with the great minster tower- 
ing up, a steep pile, half wood, half stone, with narrow 
round-headed windows, and leaden roofs; and, above 
all, the great wooden tower, firom which, on high days, 
chimed out the melody of the seven femous bells, which 
had not their like in English land. Guthlac, Bartho- 
lomew, and Bettelm were the names of the biggest, 
Turketul and Tatwin of the middle, and Pega and Bega 
of the smallest So says Ingulf, who saw them a few 
years after .pouring down on his own head in streams of 
melted metal. Outside the minster walls were the 
cottages of the corrodiers, or folk who, for a corrody, or 
Kfe pittance firom the abbey, had given away their 
lands ; * beyond them again the natural park of 

« 

- ♦ This fashion of Corrody was one which brought much land to 
xnonks, and grudging to heirs-at-law. As an instance — Geoffrey de 
Brachecourt and his wife, a few years after, gave (with consent of 
Alan de Morton, his nephew and heir, and Gilbert of Ghent, his 
feudal lord), his township of Brachecurt or Brathwaite to the 
Cisterian Monks of Vauldey, now Grimsthorpe Park, on the follow 



lo Hereward 

grass, dotted with mighty oaks and ashes ; and beyon4 
all those, comlands of inexhaustible fertility, broken up 
by the good Abbot Egelric some hundred years before, 
from which, in times of dearth, the monks of Crowland 
fed the people of all the neighbouring fens. 

They went into the great courtyard. All men were 
quiet, yet all men were busy; baking and brewing, 
carpentering and tailoring, in the workshops; reading 
and writing in the cloister ; praying and singing in the 
church; and teaching the children in the schoolhouse. 
Only the ancient sempects — some near upon a hundred 
and fifty years old, — ^wandered where they would, or 
basked against a sunny wall, like autumn flies ; each with 
a young monk to guide him, and listen to his tattle of old 
days. For, said the laws of Turketul the good — " Nothing 
disagreeable about the affairs of the monastery shall be 
mentioned in their presence. No person shall presume 

ing conditions. That his wife should have clothing of bluet and 
lambs' skins; and he of grising or halbergit and lambs' skins; and 
that their food should be such as the monks had. Their two servants 
were to fare the same as those of the brotherhood. The opinion of 
Alan de Morton concerning such a bargain may be guessed, at least 
by those who are aware that it was made for the purpose of escaping 
certain years of purgatory ; /. e, of burning alive in the next world. 

When we talk of the piety of our ancestors in giving lands to the 
Church, we should always remember that this was what their piety 
too often signified. When we complain of the squires, in Edward 
the Sixth's time, for taking back the treasures and lands of the 
monasteries, we should remember that they had been got from those 
squires' forefathers, on such grounds as these, and no other. 



The Wake. ii 

in any way to offend them : but with the greatest peace 
and tranquillity they shall await their end." 

So while the world outside raged, and fought, and 
conquered, and plundered, they within the holy isle kept 
up some sort of order, and justice, and usefulness, and 
love to God and man. And about the yards, among 
the feet of the monks, hopped the sacred ravens, 
descendants of those who brought back the gloves at 
St. Guthlac's bidding ; and overhead, under all the eaves, 
built the sacred swallows, the descendants of those who 
sat and sang upon St. Guthlac*s shoulders ; and when 
men marvelled thereat, he the holy man replied, 
" Know that they who live the holy life draw nearer 
to the birds of the air, even as they do to the angels in 
heaven." 

And Lady Godiva called for old Abbot Ulfketyl, the 
good and brave ; and fell upon his neck, and told him 
all her tale ; and Ulfketyl wept upon her neck, for they 
were old and faithful friends. 

And they passed into the dark cool church, where, in 
the crypt under the high altar, lay the tiiumb of St. Bar- 
tholomew, which old Abbot Turketul used to carry 
about, that he might cross himself with it in times of 
danger, tempest, and lightning ; and some of the hair of 
St. Mary, Queen of Heaven, in a box of gold ; and a 
bone of St. Leodegar of Aquitaine; and some few 
remains, too, of the holy bodies of St Gnthlac, and of 



12 Hereward 

St. Bettelm, his servant, and St Tatwin, who steered him 
to Crowland, and St. Egbert his confessor, and St. Cissa 
the anchorite, and of the most holy virgin St Etheldreda, 
and many more. But little of them remained since 
Sigtryg and Bagsac*s heathen Danes had heaped them 
pell-mell on the floor, and burned the church over them 
and the bodies of the slaughtered monks. 

The plunder which was taken from Crowland on that 
evil day lay, and lies still, with the plunder of Peter- 
borough and many a minster more, at the bottom of the 
Ouse at Huntingdon Bridge. But it had been more 
than replaced by the piety of the Danish kings and 
nobles ; and above the twelve white bearskins which lay 
at the twelve altars, blazed, in the light of many a wax 
candle, gold and jewels inferior only to those of Peter- 
borough and Coventry. 

And there in the nave they buried the lad Godwin, 
with chant and dirge ; and when the funeral was done, 
Hereward went up toward the high altar, and bade 
Winter and Gwenoch come with him. And there he 
knelt, and vowed a vow to God and St. Guthlac and the 
Lady Torfrida, his true love, never to leave from slaying 
while there was a Frenchman left alive on English 
ground. 

And Godiva and Ulfketyl heard his vow, and shud- 
dered : but they dared not stop him, for they too had 
English hearts. 



The Wake. 13 

And Winter and Gwenoch heard it, and repeated it 
word for word. 

Then he kissed his mother, and called Winter and 
Gwenoch, and went forth. He would be back again, he 
said, on the tliird day. 

Then those three went to Peterborough, and asked 
for Abbot Brand. And the monks let them in ; for the 
fame of their deed had passed through the forest, and all 
the French had fled. 

And old Brand lay back in his great arm-chair, his legs 
all muffled up in furs, for he could get no heat ; and by 
him stood Herluin the prior, and wondered when he 
would die, and Thorold take his place, and they should 
drive out the old Gregorian chants from the choir, and 
have the new Norman chants of Robert of Fdcamp, and 
bring in French-Roman customs in all things, and rule 
the English boors with a rod of iron. 

And old Brand knew all that was in his heart, and 
looked up like a patient ox beneath the butcher's axe, 
and said, " Have patience with me, brother Herluin, and 
I will die as soon as I can, and go where there is neitlier 
French nor English, Jew nor Gentile, bond or free, but 
all are alike in the eyes of Him who made them." 

But when he saw Hereward come in, he cast the 
mufflers off him, and sprang up from his chair, and was 
young and strong in a moment, and for a moment 

And he threw his arms round Hereward, and wept 



14 Hereward 

Tipon his neck, as his mother had done. And Hereward 
wept upon his neck, though he had not wept upon his 
mother's. 

Then Brand held him at arms' length, or thought he 
held him ; for he was leaning on Hereward, and tottering 
all the while; and extolled him as the champion, the 
warrior, the stay of his house, the avenger of his kin, the 
hero of whom he had always prophesied that his kin 
would need him, and that then he would not fail. 

But Hereward answered hini modestly and mildly : 

" Speak not so to me and of me, Uncle Brand. I am 
a very foolish, vain, sinful man, who have come through 
great adventures, I know not how, to great and strange 
happiness ; and now again to great and strange sorrows j 
and to an adventure greater and stranger than all that 
has befallen me from my youth up until now. Therefore 
make me not proud. Uncle Brand, but keep me modest 
and lowly, as befits all true knights and penitent sinners ; 
for they tell me that God resists the proud, and giveth 
p^ce to the humble. And I have that to do which do I 
cannot, unless God and His saints give me grace from 
this day forth." 

Brand looked at him, astonished \ and then turned to 
Herluin. 

" Did I not tell thee, prior ? This is the lad whom 
you called graceless and a savage ; and see, since he has 
been in foreign lands, and seen the ways of knights, he 



The Wake. 15 

talks as clerkly as a Frenchman, and as piously as any 
monk." 

" The Lord Hereward," said Herluin, " has doubtless 
learned much from the manners of our nation which he 
would not have learned in England. I rejoice to see him 
returned so Christian and so courtly a knight." 

" The Lord Hereward, Prior Herluin, has learnt one 
thing in his travels — ^to know somewhat of men and the 
hearts of men, and to deal with them as they deserve of 
him. They tell me that one Thorold of Malmesbury, — 
Thorold of Fdcamp, the minstrel, he that made the song 
of Roland — that he desires this abbey." 

" I have so heard, my lord." 

" Then I command, — I, Hereward, Lord of Bourne — 
that this abbey be held against him and all Frenchmen, 
in the name of Swend Ulfsson, king of England, and of 
me. And he that admits a Frenchman therein, I will 
shave his crown for him so well, that he shall never need 
razor more. This I tell thee ; and this I shall tell thy 
monks before I go. And unless you obey the same, my 
dream will be fulfilled; and you will see Goldenborough in 
a light low, and yourselves burning in the midst thereof." 

" Swend Ulfsson ? Swend of Denmark 1 What words 
are these?" cried Brand. 

" You will know within six months, uncle." 

** 1 shall know better things,* my boy, . before six 
month are out." 



1 6 Hereward 

" Uncle, uncle, do not say that." 

"Why not? If this mortal life be at best a prison 
and a grave, what is it worth now to an Englishman f " 

" More than ever ; for never had an Englishman suck 
a chance of showing English mettle, and winning renown 
for the English name. Uncle, you must do something 
for me and my comrades ere we go." 

"Well, boy?" 

" Make us knights." 

"Knights, lad? I thought you had been a belted 
knight this dozen years ? " 

" I might have been made a knight by many, after the 
French fashion, many a year agone. I might have been 
knight when I slew the white bear. Ladies have prayed 
me to be knighted again and again since. Something 
kept me from it. Perhaps " (with a glance at Herluiri) 
" I wanted to show that an English squire could be the 
rival and the leader of French and Flemish knights." 

"And thou hast shown it, brave lad," said Brand, 
clapping his great hands. 

" Perhaps I longed to do some mighty deed at last, 
which would give me a right to go to the bravest knight 
in all Christendom, and say, Give me the accolade, 
then ! Thou only art worthy to knight as good a man 
as thyself." 

" Pride and vain-glory," said Brand, shaking his head. 

" But now I am of a sounder mind. I see now why 



The Wake. i7 

I was kept from being knighted — ^till I had done a deed 
worthy of a true knight ; till I had mightily avenged the 
wronged, and mightily succoured the oppressed; till I 
had purged my soul of my enmity against my own kin, 
and could go out into the world a new man, with my 
mother's blessing on my head." 

" But not of the robbery of St. Peter," said Herluin* 
The French monk wanted not for moral courage : no 
French monk did in those days. And he proved it by 
those words. 

"Do not anger the lad, Prior; now, too, above all 
times, when his heart is softened towards the Lord.** 

** He has not angered me. The man is right. Here, 
Lord Abbot and Sir Prior, is a chain of gold, won in the 
wars. It is worth fifty times the sixteen pence which I 
stole, and which I repaid double. Let St Peter take it, 
for the sins of me and my two comrades, and forgive. 
And now. Sir Prior, I do to thee what I never did for 
mortal man. I kneel and ask thy foigivenness. Kneel, 
Winter ! Kneel, Gwenoch ! " And Hereward knelt. 

Herluin was of double mind. He longed to keep 
Hereward out of St Peter's grace. He longed to see 
Hereward dead at his feet : not because of any personal 
hatred, but because he foresaw in him a terrible foe to 
the Norman cause. But he wished, too, to involve 
Abbot Brand as much as possible in Hereward's rebel- 
lions and misdeeds, and above all, in the master-offence 

VOL. II. c 



^ I 



I^8 ffereward^ 

of khighting him; for for that end, he saw, Hefeward 
was come. Moreover, he was touched with the sudden 
fbankness and humiUty of the famous champion. So he 
sijiSwered mildly : 

*^ Verily, thou hast a knightly soul. May God and. 
St Peter so forgive thee and thy companions as I forgive 
tjiee, freely and from my heart." 

** Now," cried Hereward ; " A boon ! A "boon \. 
Knight me and these my fellows, Uncle Brand, this 
day." 

Brand was old and weak ; and looked at Herluin. 

"I know,'* said Hereward, "that the French look on us 
English moilk-ifiade knights as spurious and adulterine, 
unworthy of the name of knight But, I hold — ^ahd what 
chitfchman will gainsay me 1 — ^that it is nobler to receive 
sword and belt from a man of God, than from a man of 
blood like one's-self j for the fittest man to consecrate the 
soldier of an eWhly king, is the soldier of Christ the 
King of kings." * 

"He speaks well," said Herluin. "Abbot,* grant him 
his boon." 

" Who celebrates high mass to-morrow 1 " 

" Wilton the priest, the monk of Ely," said Herluin, 
aloud. "And a very dangerous and stubborn English- 
man," added he to himself. 

"Good. Then this night you shall watch in the 

* Almost word for word from the "Life of Hereward." 



The Wake. i^ 

church. To-morrow, after the Gospel, the thing shall 
be done as you will." 

That ni^t two messengers, knights of the Abbot,, 
galloped from Peterborough. One rode to Ivo Taillebois 
at Spalding, to tell him that Hereward was at Peter- 
borough ; and that he must try to cut him off upon the 
Egehic's road, the causeway which one of the many 
Abbots Egelric had made, some thirty years before, 
through Deeping Fen to Spalding, at an enormous 
expense of labour and of timber. The other knight 
rode south, along the Roman road to London, to tell 
King William of the rising of Kesteven, and all the evil 
deeds of Hereward and of Brand. 

And old Brand slept quietly in his bed, little thinking 
on what errands his. prior had sent his knights. 

Hereward and his comrades watched that night in 
St. Peter's church. Oppressed with weariness of body,, 
and awe of mind, they heard the monks drone out their 
chants through the misty gloom; they confessed the 
sins — ^and they were many — of their past wild lives.. 
They had to summon up within themselves courage and 
strength henceforth to live, not for themselves, but for 
Ae fatherland which they hoped to save. They prayed 
to all the heavenly powers of that Pantheon which thea 
stood between man and God, to help them in the 
coming struggle: but ere the morning dawned, they 
were nodding, unused to any long strain of mind. 

c 2 * 



20 Hereward 

Suddenly Hereward started, and sprang up, with a ay 
of fire. 

"What? Where?" cried his comrades; while the 
monks who ran up. . 

. '* The minster is full of flame. No use, too late, you 
cannot put it out It must bum." 

** You have been dreaming," said one. 

"I have not," said Hereward. **Is it Lammaa 
night r' 

" What a question ! It is the vigil of the Nativity of 
St. Peter and St Paul" 

" Thank heaven ; I thought my old Lammas night's 
dream was coming true at last." 

Herluin heard, ind knew what he meant. 

After which Hereward was silent, filled with many 
thoughts. 

The next morning, before the high mass, those three 
brave men walked up to the altar; laid thereon their 
belts and swords ; and then knelt humbly at the foot of 
the steps till the Gospel was finished. 

Then came down from the altar Wilton of Ely, and 
laid on each man's bare neck the bare blade, and bade 
him take back his sword in the name of God and of 
St Peter and St Paul, and use it like a true knight, for 
a terror and punishment to evil doers, and a defence for 
women and orphans, and the poor and the oppressed, 
and the monks the servants of God. 



The Wake. 35 

And then the monks girded each man with his belt 
and sword once more. And after mass was sung, they 
rose, each feeling himself— and surely not in vaih^a 
better man. •' 

At least this is certain, that Hereward would say to 
his dying day, how he had often proved that none would 
fight so well as those who had received their sword fi^om 
God's knights the monks. Therefore he would have, 
in after years, almost all his companions knighted by 
the monks ; and he brought into Ely with him that same 
good custom which he had learnt at Peterborough, and 
kept it up as long as he held the isle. 

Then he said — ... 

"Have you monks a limner here, who can paitit 
for me 1 " 

" That can I," said Wilton of Ely. 

"Then take my shield, and raze from it this bear 
which I carry." ■ 

Wilton brought pencil and paint, and did so. 

" Now, paint me in a W, that shall stand for Wake ; 
and make it — ^make it out of the knots of a monk'« 
girdle, for a sign that I am a monk's knight, and not a 
king's ; and that I am the champion of the monks of 
England against the monks of France, from this time 
forth for evermore." 

Wilton did it ; and made out of two monks' girdles 
none other than the after-famous Wake knot. 



29 Hertward 

" Now do the same by Winter and Gwenoch's shields. 
Monks' knights are we; and monks' battles we will 
£ght" 

" You must have a motto to match withal, my g(!K)d 
Lord," said Wilton, throwing his English heart into the 
-work. 

"What better than my own name — ^Wake? These 
are times in which good Englishmen must not sleep— 
and sleep 1 will not, trust me \ nor mine neither." 

** Vigila, that will be in Latin." 

"Ay — let us have Latin \ and show these Frenchmen 
that we are clerks and geMletnen, as well as they." 

"JVigila . . . . et Ora," said the monk solemnly. 
^** Watch and pray; lest thou enter into temptation." 

*' Watch — and pray. Thou speakest like a man of 
God," said Hereward, half sadly. ^' Thou hast said : so 
be it God knows, I have need of that too, if only I 
knew how. But I will watch, and my wife shall pray ; 
and so will the work be well parted between us." 

And so was bom the Wake motto, and the Wake 
knot 

It was late when they got back to Crowland. The 
•;good Abbot received them with a troubled face. 

** As I feared, my Lord, you have been too hot and 
hasty. The French have raised the country against 
you," 



The Wake. .33 

** I have raised it against them, my Lord." . 

^ But we have news that Sir Frederick—" 

** And who may he be 1" 

*^ A very terrible Goliah. of these French; old and 
crafty ; a brother of old Earl Warrenne of Norfolk, whom 
God confound. And he has sworn to have your life, 
and has gathered knights and men-at-arms at Lynn in 
NorfolL" 

" Very good j I will visit him as I go home, Lord 
Abbot. Not a word of this to any soul." 

" I tremble for thee, thou young David." 

" One cannot live for ever, my Lord. Farewell." 

A week after a boatman brought news to Crowland, 
how Sir Frederick was sitting in his inn at Lynn, when 
there came in one with a sword, and said, " I am Here- 
ward the Wake. I was told that thou didst desire 
greatly to see me; therefore I am come, being a 
courteous knight," and therewith smote off his head. 
And when the knights and others would have stopped 
him, he cut his way through them, killing some three or 
four at each stroke, himself unhurt ; for he was clothed 
from head to foot in magic armour, and whosoever smote 
it, their swords melted in their hands. And so gaining 
the door, he vanished in a great cloud of sea-fowl, that 
cried for ever " The Wake is come again." 

And after that the fen-men said to each other, that all 
the birds upon the meres cried nothing save " The Wake 
is come again," 



24 Herewardthe Wake, 

And so, already surrounded with myth and mystery,. 
Hereward flashed into the fens and out again, like the 
lightning brand, destroying as he passed. And the 
hearts of all the French were turned to water ; and the 
land had peace from its tyrants for many days. 



CHAPTER II. 

HOW IVO TAILLEBOIS MARCHED OUT OF SPALDING 

TOWN. 

A PROUD man was Ivo Taillebois, as he rode next 
morning out of Spalding town, with hawk on fist, 
hound at heel, and a dozen men-at-arms at his back, 
who would, on due or undue cause shown, hunt men 
while he hunted game. 

An adventurer from Anjou, brutal, ignorant, and pro- 
fligate — low-bom, too (for his own men whispered, 
behind his back, that he was no more than his name 
hinted, a wood-cutter's son), he still had his deserts. 
Valiant he was, cunning, and skilled in war. He and 
his troop of Angevine ruttiers had fought like tigers by 
William's side at Hastings ; and he had been rewarded 
with many a manor, which had been Earl Algar's, and 
should now have been Earl Edwin's, or Morcar's, or, it 
may be, Hereward's own. 

" A fat land and fair," said he to himself; " and, after 
I have hanged a few more of these barbarians, a peace- 
able fief enough to. hand down to the lawful heirs of my 



26 Hereward 

body, if I had one. I must marry. Blessed Virgin ! 
this it is to serve and honour your gracious glory, as I 
have always done according to my poor humility. Who 
would have thought that Ivo Taillebois would ever rise 
so high in life, as to be looking out for a wife — and that 
a lady, tool" 

Then thought he over the peerless beauties of the 
Lady Lucia, Edwin and Morcar's sister, almost as fair 
as that hapless aunt of hers, Ald3rtha, King Harold's 
widow. Eddeva fa;ira, Eddeva pulcra, stands her name 
in Domesday-book; known, even to her Norman con- 
querors, as the Beauty of her time, as Godiva her 
mother had been before her. Scarcely less beautiful 
was Lucia, as Ivo had seen her at William's court, half- 
captive and half-guest: and he longed for her; love her 
he could not. " I have her father's lands," quoth he ; 
"what more reasonable than to have the daughter, too % 
And have her I will, unless the Mamzer, in his presefrit 
merciful and political mood, makes a countess of her, 
and marries her up to somie Norman coxcomb, with a 
long pedigree — ^invented the year before last. If he 
does throw away his daughter on that Earl Edwin, in 
his fancy for petting and patting these savages into good 
humour, he is not likely to throw away Edwin's sister 
on a Taillebois. Well. I must piit a spoke in Edwin's 
wheel. It will not be difficult to make him or Morcar, 
or both of them, traitors once more and for ever. We 



The Wake. 27 

must have a rebellion in these parts. I will talk about 
it to Gilbert of Ghent. We must make these savages 
desperate, and William furious, or he will be soon giving 
them back their lands, beside asking them to Court: 
and then how are valiant knights like us, who have won 
England for him, to be paid for their trouble % No, no. 
We must have a fr^sh rebellion, and a fresh confiscation, 
and then when English lasses are going cheap, perhaps 
the Lady Lucia may fall to my share." 

And Ivo Taillebois kept his word ; and without diffi- 
culty, for he had many to help him. To drive the 
English to desperation, and to get a pretext for seizing 
their lands, was the game which the Normans played, 
and but too well. 

As he rode out of Spalding town, a man was being 
hanged^ on the gallows there permanently provided. 

That was so common a sight, that Ivo would not 
have stopped, had not a priest, who was comforting the 
criminal, run forward, and almost thrown himself under 
the horse's feet 

" Mercy, good my Lord, in the name of God and all 
His saints.". 

Ivo went to ride on. 

" Mercy ! " arid he laid hands on Ivo's bridle. *^ If he 
took a few pike out of your mere, remember that the mere 
was his, and his father's before him; and do not send a 
sorely tempted soul out of the world for a paltry fish." 



28 . Hereward 

" And where am I to get fish for Lent, Sir Priest, if 
every rascal nets my waters, because his father did so 
before himi Take your hand off my bridle, or, par 
Je splendeur Dex" (Ivo thought it fine to use King 
William's favourite oath), I " will hew it off." 
. The" priest looked at him, with something of honest 
fierceness in his eyes ; and dropping the bridle, muttered 
to himself in Latin : " The bloodthirsty and deceitfiil 
man shall not live out half his days. Nevertheless my 
trust shall be in Thee, O Lord." 

" What art muttering, beast 1 Go home to thy wife " 
(wife was by no means the word which Ivo used), " and 
make the most of her, before I rout out thee and thy 
fellow canons, and put in good monks from Normandy 
in the 'place of your drunken English swine. Hang 
him!" shouted he, as the bystanders fell on their 
knees before the tyrant, crouching in terror, every 
woman for her husband, every man for wife and 
daughter. "And hearken, you fen-frogs alL Whoso 
touches pike or eel, swimming or wading fowl, within 
these meres of mine without my leave, I will hang him 
as I hanged this man ; as I hanged four brothers in a 
row on Wrokesham bridge but last week." 

" Go to Wrokesham bridge, and see," shouted a shrill 
cracked voice from behind the crowd. 

All looked round ; and more than one of Ivo's men 
set up a yell, the hangman loudest of all. 



The Wake. 39 

"That's he, the heron again! Catch him! Stop 
him! Shoot him!" 

But that was not so easy. As Ivo pushed his horse 
through the crowd, careless of whom he crushed, he 
saw a long lean figure flying through the air seven 
feet aloft, his heels higher than his head, on the further 
side of a deep broad ditch; and on the nearer side 
df the same, one of his best men lying stark, with a 
cloven skulL 

"Gb to Wrokesham !" shrieked the lean man, as he 
rose, and showed a ridiculously long nose, neck, and 
legs (a type still not uncommon in the fens), a quilted 
leather coat, a double-bladed axe slung over his shoulder 
by a thong, a round shield at his back, and £l pole three 
times as long as himself, which he dragged after him 
him, like an unwieldy tail. 

" The heron, the heron ! " shouted the f^glish. ^ 

'* Follow him, men, heron or hawk ! ** shouted Ivo, 
galloping his horse up to the ditch, and stopping short 
at fifteen feet of water. 

" Shoot, some one ! Where are the bows gone 1 " 
. The heron was away two hundred yards, running, in 
spite of his pole, at a wonderful pace, before a- bow 
could be brought to bear. IJe seemed to expect an 
arrow, for he stopped, glanced his eye round, threW. him- 
self flat on his face, with .his ^shield, not over his body, 
but over his bare legs ; sprang up as the shaft stuck in 



3© .Hereward 

the ground beside him ; ran on ; planted his pole in the 
next dyke, and flew over it. 

In a few minutes he was beyond pursuit, and Ivo 
turned, breathless with rage, to ask who he was. 

'' Alas, sir, he is the man who set free the four men at 
Wrokesham bridge last week." 

" Set free 1 Are they not hanged and dead ?" 

" We — ^we dare not tell you. But he came upon us — '* 

" Single-handed, you cowards % " 

** Sir, he is not a man, but a witch or a devil He 
asked us what we did there. One of our men laughed 
at his long neck and legs, and called him Heron. 
' Heron I am,' says he, ' and strike like a heron, right 
at the eyes,' and with that he cuts the man over the face 
with his axe, and laid him dead, and then another, and 
another." 

" Till you all ran away, villains." 

« We gave back a step — no more. And he freed one 
of those four, and he again the rest ; and then they all 
set on us, and went to hang us in their own stead." 

" When there were ten of you, I thought % " 

^' Sir, as we told you, he is no mortal man, but a 
fiend." 

"Beasts, fools! Well, I have hanged this one, at 
least ! " growled Ivo, and then rode sullenly on. 

"Who is this fellow T* cried he to the trembling 
English 



The Wake. 31 

" Wulfric Raher, Wulfric the Heron, of Wrokesham 
in Norfolk." 

" Aha ! And I hold a manor of his," said Ivo to 
himself. "Look you, villains, this fellow is in league 
with you." 

A burst of abject denial followed. " Since the French 
—since Sir Frederick, as they call him, drove him out 
of his Wrokesham lands, he wanders the country, as you 
see ; to-day here : but heaven only knows where he will 
be to-morrow." 

"And finds, of course, a friend everjrwhere. Now 
march ! " and a string of threats and curses followed. 

It was hard to see why Wulfric should not have 
found friends; as he was simply a small holder, or 
squire, driven out of house and land, and turned adrift 
on the wide world, for the offence of having fought 
in Harold's army at the battle of Hastings. But to 
give him food or shelter was, in Norman eyes, an 
act of rebellion against the rightful King William; 
and lyo rode on, boiling over with righteous indig- 
nation, along the narrow drove which led toward 
Deeping. 

A pretty lass came along the drove, driving a few 
sheep before her, and spinning as she walked. 

" Whose lass are you ?" shouted Ivo. 

"The Abbot's of Crowland, please your lordship," 
said she, trembling. 



32 Jlereward 

" Much too pretty to belong to monks. Chuck her 
up behind you, one of you." 

The shrieking and struggling girl was mounted behind 
a horseman, and bound ; and Ivo rode on. 

A woman ran out of a turf-hut on the drove side, 
attracted by the girl's cries. It was her mother. 

" My lass 1 Give me my lass, for the love of St Mary, 
and all saints ! " And she clung to Ivo's bridle. 

He struck her down, and rode on over her. 

A man cutting sedges in a ^punt in the lode alongside, 
looked up at the girl's shrieks, and leapt on shore, scythe 
in hand. 
: "Father! father!" cried she. 

" I'll rid thee, lass, or die for it," said he, as he sprang 
up the drove-dyke, and swept right and left at the horses' 
legs. 

The men recoiled. One horse went down, lamed for 
life j another staggered backwards into the further lode, 
and was drowned But an arrow went through the brave 
serf's heart, and Ivo rode on, cursing more bitterly than 
ever, and comforted himself by flying his hawks at a 
covey of partridges. 

Soon a group came along the drove which promised 
fresh sport to the man-hunters: but as the foremost 
person came up, Ivo stopped in wonder at the shout of — 

" Ivo ! Ivo Taillebois ! Halt and have a care ! The 
English are risen, and we are all dead. men i" 



The Wake. 33 

The words were spoken in French ; and in French Ivo 
answered, laughing : 

" Thou art not a dead man yet it seems, Sir Robert ; 
art going on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, that thou comest 
in this ^hion ] Or dost thou mean to return to Anjou 
as bare as thou camest out of it 1 " 

For Sir Robert had, like Edgar in Shakespeare's 
Lear, '* reserved himself a blanket, else had they, all been 
shamed" 

But very little more did either he, his lady, and his 
three children wear, as they trudged along the drove, in 
even poorer case than that 

Robert of Coningsby, 
Who came out of Nonnandy, 
With his wife Tiffany, 
And his maid Maupas, 
And his dog Hardigras. 

" For the love of heaven and all chivalry, joke me no 
jokes, Sir Ivo : but give me and mine clothes and food. 
The barbarians rose on us last night— with Azer, the 
ruffian who owned my lands, at their head ; and drove us 
out into the night as we are, bidding us carry the news 
to you, for your turn would come next. There are forty 
or more of them in West Deeping now, and coming 
eastward, they say, to visit you, and what is more than 
all, Hereward is come again." 

" Hereward ]" cried Ivo, who knew that name full well. 

VOL. II. D 



34 Hereward % 

Whereon Sir Robert told him the terrible tragedy of 
Bourne. 

" Mount the lady on a horse, and wrap her in my 
cloak. Get that dead villain's clothes for Sir Robert as 
we go back. Put your horses* heads about and ride for 
Spalding." 

'< What shall we do with the lass % " 

"We cannot be burdened with the jade. She has 
cost us two good horses already. Leave her in the road, 
bound as she is, and let us see if St. Guthlac her master 
will come and untie her." 

So they rode back. Coming from Deeping two hours 
after, Azer and his men found the girl on the road, dead. 

" Another count in the long score," quoth Azer. But 
when, in two hours more, they came to Spalding town, 
they found all the folk upon the street, shouting and 
praising the host of heaven. There was not a French- 
man left in the town. 

For when Ivo returned home, ere yet Sir Robert and 
his family were well clothed and fed, there galloped into 
Spalding from the north. Sir Ascelin, whileome of St. 
Valery, nephew and man of Thorold, would-be Abbot of 
Peterborough. 

" Not bad news, I hope ? " cried Ivo, as Ascelin clanked 
into the halL " We have enough of our own. Here is 
all Kesteven, as the barbarians call it, risen, and they are 
murdering us right and left." 



u 



4 27ie Wake. 35 

Worse news than that, Ivo Taillebois " — " Sir/' or 
** Sieur/* Ascelin was loth to call him, being himself a 
man of family and fashion ; and holding the nouveaux 
venus in deep contempt " Worse news than that The 
Morth has risen again, and proclaimed Prince Edgar 
King." 

" A king of words ! What care I, or you, as long as 
The Mamzer, God bless him, is a king of deeds ? ** 

" They have done their deeds, though, too. Gospatric 
and Merlesweyn are back out of Scotland. They at- 
tacked Robert de Comines* at Durham, and burnt him in 
his own house. There was but one of his men got out 
of Durham to tell the news. And now they have 
inarched on York; and all the chiefs, they say, have 
joined them-^Archill the Thane, and Edwin and Morcar, 
and Waltheof too, the young traitors." 

"Blessed Virgin!" cried Ivo, "thou art indeed gra- 
cious to thy most unworthy knight ! " 

" What do you mean 1 " 

" You will see some day. Now, I will tell you but 
one word. When fools make hay, wise men build 
ricks. This rebellion — ^if it had not come of itself I 
would have roused it We wanted it, to cure William of 
this just and benevolent policy of his, which would have 
ended in sending us back to France, as poor as we left 
it. Now, what am I expected to do ? What says Gil- 

* Ancestor of the Comyns of Scotland. 

D 2 



36 Hereward 

bert of Ghent, the wise man of Lie — ^nic — ^what the pest 
do you call that outlandish place, which no civilized lips 
can pronounce?" 

" Lic-nic-cole ] " replied Ascelin, who, like the rest of 
the French, never could manage to say Lincoln. " He 
says, ' March to me, and with me to join the king at 
York.' " 

" Then he says well. These fet acres will be none the 
leaner, if I leave the English slaves to crop them for six 
months. Men ! arm and horse Sir Robert of Deeping. 
Then arm and horse yourselves. We march north in 
half-an-hour, bag and baggage, scrip and scrippage. You 
are all bachelors, like me, and travel light. So off with 
you ! Sir Ascelin, you will eat and drink ? " 

" That will I." 

" Quick, then, butler : and after that pack up the 
Englishman's plate-chest, which we inherited by right of 
fist — ^the only plate, and the only title-deeds I ever pos- 
sessed." 

" Now, Sir Ascelin " — ^as the three knights, the lady, 
and the poor children ate their fastest — " listen to me. 
The art of war lies in this one nut-shell — ^to put the 
greatest number of men into one place at one time, and 
let all other places shift ; so striking swiftly, and striking 
heavily. That is the rule of our liege lord King 
William; and by it he will conquer England, or the 
world, if he will ; and while he does that, he shall never 



The Wake. 37 

say that Ivo Taillebois stayed at home to guard his own 
manors, while he could join his king, and win all the 
manors of England once and for all." 

" Pardex ! whatever men may say of thy lineage or 
thy virtues, they cannot deny this — that thou art a most 
wse and valiant captain/* 

** That am I," quoth Taillebois, too much pleased with 
the praise to care about being tutoy^ by a younger man. 
** As for my lineage, my lord the king has a fellow-feeling 
for upstarts ; and the woodman's grandson may very well 
serve the tanner's. Now, men ! is the litter ready for the 
lady and children % I am sorry to rattle you about thus, 
madame : but war has no courtesies ; and march I must." 

And so the French went out of Spalding town. 

" Don't be in a hurry to thank your saints ! " shouted 
Ivo to his victims. "I shall be back this day three 
months ; and then you shall see a row of gibbets all the 
way from here to Deeping, and an Englishman hanging 
on every one." 



38 Hereward 



CHAPTER III. 

HOW HEREWARD SAILED FOR ENGLAND ONCE AND 

FOR ALL. 

So Hereward fought the Viscount of Pinkney, who 
had the usual luck which befel those who crossed swords 
with him; and plotted meanwhile with Gyda and the 
Countess Judith. Abbot Egelsin sent them news from 
King Sweyn in Denmark ; soon Judith and Tosti's two 
sons went themselves to Sweyn, and helped the plot and 
the fitting out of the armament News they had firom 
England in plenty, by messengers from Queen Matilda to 
the sister who was intriguing to dethrone her husband, 
and by private messengers firom Durham and fi'om York. 

Baldwin, the d^onnaire marquis, had not lived to see 
this fruit of his long efibrts to please everybody. He had 
gone to his rest the year before ; and now there ruled in 
Bruges his son, Baldwin the Good, " Count Palatine," as 
he styled himself, and his wife Richilda, the Lady of 
Hainault 

They probably cared as little for the success of their 
sister Matilda, as they did for that of their sister Judith ; 



The Wake. 39 

and followed out — Baldwin at least — ^the great marquis's 
plan of making Flanders a retreat for the fugitives of all 
the countries round. 

At least, if (as seems) Swe3m's fleet made the coast of 
Flanders its rendezvous and base of operations against 
King William, Baldwin offered no resistance. 

So the messengers came, and the plots went on. 
Great was the delight of Hereward and the ladies when 
they heard of the taking of Durham and York : but 
bitter their surprise and rage when they heard that Gos- 
patric and the Confederates had proclaimed Edgar 
Atheling king. 

" Fools ! they will ruin all ! " cried Gyda. " Do they 
expect Sweyn Ulfsson, who never moved a finger yet, 
unless he saw that it would pay him within the hour, to 
spend blood and treasure in putting that puppet boy upon 
the throne instead of himself] " 

" Calm yourself, great Countess," said Hereward, with 
a smile. "The man who puts him. on the throne will 
find it very easy to take him off again when he needs." 

" Pish ! " said Gyda. " He must put him on the 
throne first And how will he do that 1 Will the men 
of the Danelagh, much less the Northumbrians south of 
Tyne, ever rally round an Atheling of Cerdic's house % " 

" Those between Tyne and Forth will join him," said 
Hereward. " They are Saxons like himself." 

"And who are they, that three-fourths of England 



40 Hereward 

should be scorned for their sake 1 If their cousins of 
Wessex, with my boys at their head, could not face this 
Frenchman, how will they 1 It is in my blood and my 
kin, in the Danelagh and the Danes, that the strength of 
England lies : and not in a handful of Scotch earls, backed 
by a barbarian like Malcolm. If the boy Edgar be Gos- 
patric's cousin, or Malcolm's brother-in-law, what is that 
to England — or indeed to them? The boy is a mere 
stalking-horse, behind which each of these greedy chiefs 
expects to get back his own lands in the North ; and if 
they can get them back by any other means, well and 
good Mark my words, Sir Hereward, that cunning 
Frenchman will treat with them one by one^ and betray 
them one by one, till there is none left." 

How far Gyda was rjght, will be seen hereafter. But 
a less practised diplomat than the great Countess might 
have speculated reasonably on such an event. The con- 
nexion between Scotch and English royalty Was, at the 
moment, most harmftd to England But more harmftil fax 
would it have been, had the Danish invasion succeeded ; 
had England been parted, perhaps for ever, from the 
ruling houses of Scotland ; and become a mere appanage 
of the Scandinavian kings. 

Then came darker news. As Ivo had foreseen, and 
as Ivo had done his best to bring about, William dashed 
on York, and drove out the Confederates with terrible 
slaughter; pro&ned the churches, plundered the town. 



The Wake, 41 

Gospatric and the earls retreated to Durham; the 
Atheling, more cautious, to Scotland. 

Then came a strange story, worthy of the grown 
children who, in those old times, bore the hearts of boys 
with the ferocity and intellect of men. 

A great fog fell on the Frenchmen as they struggled 
over the Durham moors. The doomed city was close 
beneath them ; they heard Wear roaring in his wooded 
gorge. But a darkness, as of Egypt, lay upon them : 
'* neither rose any from his place." 

Then the Frenchman cried : " This darkness is from 
St. Cuthbert himself. We have invaded his holy soil. 
Who has not heard how none who offend St. Cuthbert 
ever went unpunished? how palsy, blindness, madness, 
fall on those who dare to violate his sanctuary 1" 

And the French turned and fled from before the face 

« 

of St. Cuthbert ; and William went down to Winchester 
angry and sad, and then went off to Gloucestershire ; 
and hunted — ^for whatever befel, he still would hunt — in 
the forest of Dean. 

And still Sweyn and his Danes had not sailed ; and 
Hereward walked to and fro in his house, impatiently, and 
bided his time. 

In July Baldwin died. Amoul, the boy, was Count of 
Flanders, and Richilda, his sorceress-mother, ruled the 
land in his name. She began to oppress the Flemings ; 
not those of French Flanders, round St Omer, but those 



42 Hereward 

of Flemish Flanders, toward the nordL They threat- 
ened to send for Robert the Frison to right them. 

Hereward was perplexed. He was Robert the Fri- 
son's friend, and old soldier. Richilda was Torfrida's 
friend ; so was, still more, the boy Amoul ; which party 
should he take % Neither, if he could help it. And he 
longed to be safe out of the land. 

And at last his time came. Martin Lightfoot ran in, 
breathless, to tell how the sails of a mighty fleet were 
visible from the Dunes. 

" Here 1 " cried Hereward. "What are the fools doing 
down here, wandering into the very jaws of the wolf 1 
How will they land here ? They were to have gone 
straight to the Lincolnshire coast God grant this mis- 
take be not the first of dozens ! " 

Hereward went into Torfirida's bower. 

" This is an evil business. The Danes are here, where 
they have no business, instead of being off" Scheldtmouth, 
as I entreated them. But go we must, or be for ever 
shamed. Now, true wife, are you ready? Dare you 
leave home, and kin, and friends, once and for all, to 
go, you know not whither, with one who may be a gory 
corpse by this day week % " 

" I dare,'' said she. 

So they went down the Aa by night, with Torfrida's 
mother, and the child, and all their jewels, and all they 
had in the world And their housecarles went with 



The Wake, 43 

them, forty men, tried and trained, who had vowed to 
follow Hereward round the world. And there were two 
long ships ready, and twenty good mariners in each. 
So when the Danes made the South Foreland the next 
morning, they were aware of two gallant ships bearing 
down on them, with a strange knot embroidered on 
their sails. 

, A proud man was Hereward that day, as he sailed into 
the midst of the Danish fleet, and up to the ro)ral ships, 
and shouted : 

" I am Hereward The Wake ; and I come to take ser- 
vice under my rightful lord, Sweyn king of England." 

" Come on board, then ; well do we know you, and 
right glad we are to have The Wake with us." 

And Hereward laid his ship's bow upon the quarter of 
the royal ship (to lay alongside was impossible, for fear 
of breaking oars), and came on board. 

"And thou art Hereward?" asked a tall and noble 
warrior. 

" I am. And thou art Swe)m Ulfsson, the king % " 

" I am Jarl Asbiom, his brother." 

" Then, where is the king ] " 

" He is in Denmark, and I command his fleet ; and 
with me Canute and Harald, Sweyn's sons, and Jarls and 
Bishops enough for all England." 

This was spoken in a somewhat haughty tone, in 
answer to the look of surprise and disappointment which 



44 Herewara 

Hereward had, unawares, allowed to pass over his 
face. 

" Thou art better than none," said Hereward. " Now, 
hearken, Asbiom the Jarl. Had Sweyn been here, I 
would have put my hand between his, and said in my 
own name, and that of all the men in Kesteven aad the 
fens, Swe3m*s men we are, to live and die ! But now, as 
it is, I say, for me and them, thy men we are, to live and 
die, as long as thou art true to us." 

" True to you I will be," said Asbiom. 

"Be it so," said Hereward: "True we shall be, 
whatever betide. Now, whither goes Jarl Asbiom, and 
all his great meinie ? " 

" We purpose to try Dover." 

" You will not take it. The Frenchman has strengthened 
it with one of his accursed keeps, and without battering- 
engines you may sit before it a month." 

" What if I ask you to go in thither yourself, and try 
the mettle and the luck which, they say, never failed 
Hereward yet 1" 

" I should say that it was a child's trick to throw away 
against a paltry stone wall the life of a man who was 
ready to raise for you in Lincolnshire and Cambridge- 
shire, five times as many men as you will lose in taking 
Dover." 

" Hereward is right," said more than one JarL " We 
shall need him in his own country." 



The Wake. 45 

" If you axe wise, to that country you yourselves will 
go. It is ready to receive you. This is ready to oppose 
you. You are attacking the Frenchman at his strongest 
point, instead of his weakest Did I not send again and 
again, entreating you to cross from Scheldtmouth to the 
Wash, and send me word that I might come and raise 
the Fen-men for you, and then we would all go north 
together % " 

"I have heard, ere now," said Asbiom, haughtily, 
" that Hereward, though he be a valiant Viking, is more 
fond of giving advice than of taking it" 

Hereward was about to answer very fiercely. If he 
had, no one would have thought any harm, in those 
plain-spoken times. But he was wise; and restrained 
himself, remembering that Torfiida was there, all but 
alone, in the midst of a fleet of savage men ; and that 
beside, he had a great deed to do, and must do it as he 
could. So he answered — 

"Asbiom the Jarl has not, it seems, heard this of 
Hereward: that because he is accustomed to comand, 
he is also accustomed to obey. What thou wilt do, do, 
and bid me do. He that quarrels with his captain, cuts 
his own throat and his fellows* too." 

Wisely spoken ! " said the Jarls ; and Hereward went 
back to his ship. 

" TorMda," said he bitterly, " the game is lost before 
it is begun." 



46 Hereward 

" God forbid, my beloved 1 What words are these 1 " 

" Sweyn — fool that he is with his over-caution — ^always 
the same — ^has let the prize slip from between his fingers. 
He has sent Asbiom instead of himself." 

" But why is that so terrible a mistake 1 '" 

" We do not want a fleet of Vikings in England, to 
plunder the French and English alike. We want a king, 
a king, a king ! '' and Hereward stamped with rage. 
"And instead of a king, we have this Asbiom — ^all men 
know him — greedy, and false, and weak-headed. Here 
he is going to be beaten off" at Dover ; and then, I 
suppose, at the next port ; and so forth, till the whole 
season is wasted, and the ships and men lost by 
driblets. Pray for us to God and His saints, Torfrida, 
you] who are nearer to heaven than I ; for we never 
needed it more." 

So Asbiom went in; tried to take Dover; and was 
beaten off with heavy loss. 

Then the Jarls bade him take Hereward's advice. 
But he would not 

So he went round the Foreland, and tried Sandwich — 
as if, landing there, he would have been safe in marching 
on London, in the teeth of the ^te of Normandy. 

But he was beaten off there, with more loss. Then, 
too late, he took Hereward's advice — or, rather, half of 
it — and sailed north ; but only to commit more follies. 

He dared not enter the Thames. He would not go 



The Wake. 47 

on to the Wash; but he went into the Orwell, and 
attacked Ipswich, plundering right and left, instead of 
proclaiming King Sweyn, and calling the Danish folk 
around him. They naturally enough rose; and, like 
valiant men, beat him off; while Hereward lay outside 
the river mouth, his soul within him black with disap- 
pointment, rage, and shame. He would not go in. He 
would not fight against his own countrymen. He would 
not help to turn the whole plan into a marauding raid. 
And he told Jarl Asbiom so, so fiercely, that his life 
would have been in danger, had not the force of his arm 
been as much feared as the force of his name was 
needed. 

At last they came to Yarmouth. Asbiom would 
needs land there, and try Norwich. 

Hereward was nigh desperate : but he hit upon a 
plan. Let Asbiom do so, if he would. He himself 
would sail round to the Wash, raise the Fen-men, and 
march eastward at their head through Norfolk to meet 
him. Asbiom himself could not refuse so rational a 
proposal. All the Jarls and Bishops approved loudly ; 
and away Hereward went to the Wash, his heart well- 
nigh broke, foreseeing nothing but evil 



48 . Hereward 



CHAPTER IV. 

HOW HEREWARD GATHERED AN ARMY. 

The voyage round the Norfolk coast was rough and 
wild. Torfrida was ill ; the little girl was ill ; the poor 
old mother was so ill that she could not even say her 
prayers. Packed uncomfortably under the awning on 
the poop, Torfrida looked on from beneath it upon the 
rolling water-waste, with a heart fiill of gloomy fore- 
bodings, and a brain whirling with wild fancies. The 
wreaths of cloud were grey witches, hurrying on with the 
ship to work her woe; the low red storm-dawn was 
streaked with blood \ the water which guigled all night 
under the lee was alive with hoarse voices ; and again and 
again she started from fitful slumber to clasp the child 
closer to her, or look up for comfort to the sturdy figure 
of her husband, as he stood, like a tower of strength, 
steering and commanding, the long night through. 

Yes ; on him she could depend. On his courage, on 
his skill And as for his love, had she not that utterly ? 
and what more did woman need ? 

But she was going, she scarce knew whither ; and she 



The Wake, 49 

scarce knew for what At least, on a fearful adventure, 
which might have a fearful end. She looked at the fair 
child, and reproached herself for a moment ; at the poor 
old mother, whining and mumbling, her soft southern 
heart quite broken by the wild chill northern sea-breeze ; 
and reproached herself still more. But was it not her 
duty ? Him she loved, and his she was ; and him she 
must follow, over sea and land, till death ; and if possible, 
beyond death again for ever. For his sake she would 
slave. For his sake she would be strong. If ever 
tere rose in her a home-sickness, a regret for leaving 
Flanders, and much more for that sunnier South where 
she was bom, he at least should never be saddened or 
weakened by one hint of her sadness and weakness. 
And so it befel that, by the time they made the coast, 
she had (as the old chronicler says) "altogether con^ 
quered all womanly softness." :^ 

And yet she shuddered at the dreary mud-creek into 
which they ran their ships, at the dreary flats on which 
they landed shivering, swept over by the keen north- 
cast wind. A lonely land ; and within, she knew not 
what of danger, it might be of hideous death. 

But she would be strong: and when they were all 
landed, men, arms, baggage, and had pitched the tents 
which the wise Hereward had brought with them, she 
rose up like a queen, and took her little one by the 
hand, and went among the men, and spoke : 

VOL. II. E 



OXFORD 
LI?.';''? -spy 



5o Hereward 

^' Housecarles and mariners ! You are following a 
great captain^ upon a great adventure. How great he 
is you know as well as I. I have given him myself, 
my wealth, and all I have ; and have followed him I 
know not whither, because I trust hira utterly. Men, 
trust him as I trust him, and follow him to the death." 

*' That we wiU ! " 

*^ And men, I am here among you, a weak woman, 
trying to be brave for his sake — and for yours. Be true 
to me, too, as I have been true to you. For your sake 
have I worked hard, day and night, for many a year. 
For you I have baked, and brewed, and cooked, like 
any poor churl's wife. Is there a garment on your backs 
which my hands have not mended? Is there a wound 
on your limbs which my hands have not salved 1 Oh 
if Torfrida has been true to you, promise me this day 
that you will be true men to her and hers ; that if — ^which 
Heaven forbid — ^aught should befal him and me, you will 
protect this my poor old mother, and this my child, who 
has grown up amongst you all — a. lamb brought up within 
the lion's den. Look at her, men, and promise me, on 
the fJEiith of valiant soldiers, that you will be lions on her 
behalf, if she shall ever need you. Promise me, that 
if you have but one more stroke left to strike on earth, 
you will strike it to defend the daughter of Hereward 
and Torftida from cruelty and shame." 

The men answered with a shout which rolled along the 



The Wake. 51 

fen, and startled the wild fowl up from far-off pools. 
They crowded round their lady ; they kissed her hands \ 
they bent down and kissed their little playmate; and 
swore — one by God and His apostles, and the next by 
Odin and Thor — ^that she should be a daughter to each 
and every one of them, as long as they could grip steel 
in hand. 

Then (says the chronicler) Hereward sent on spies, to 
see whether the Frenchmen were in the land, and how 
folks fared at Holbeach, Spalding, and Bourne. 

The two young Siwards, as knowing the country and 
the folk, pushed forward, and with them Martin Light- 
foot, to bring back news. 

Martin ran back all the way from Holbeach, the very 
first day, with right good tidings. There was not a 
Frenchman in the town. Neither was there, they 
said, in Spalding. Ivo Taillebois was still away at the 
wars, and long might he stay. 

So forward they marched, and everywhere the lands- 
folk were tilling the ground in peace ; and when they saw 
that stout array, they hurried out to meet the troops, and 
burdened them with food, and ale, and all they needed. 

And at Holbeach, and at Spalding, Hereward split up 
the war-arrow, and sent it through Kesteven, and south 
into the Cambridge fens, calling on all men to arm, and 
come to him at Bourne, in the name of Waltheof and 
Morcar the Earls. 

£ a 



5 a Hereward 

And at every farm and town he blew the war-horn, 
and summoned every man who could bear arms to be 
ready, against the coming of the Danish host from 
Norwich. And so through all the fens came true what 
the wild fowl said upon the meres, that The Wake was 
come again. 

And when he came to Bourne, all men were tilling 
in peace. The terror of The Wake had fallen on the 
Frenchmen; and no man had dared to enter on his 
inheritance, or to set a French foot over the threshold 
of that ghastly hall, above the gable whereof still grinned 
the fifteen heads ; on the floor whereof still spread the 
dark stains of blood. 

Only Gery dwelt in a comer of the house, and with 
/him Leofric, once a rojrstering house-carle of Hereward's 
youth ; now a monk of Crowland, and a deacon, whom 
Lady Godiva had sent thither that he might take care 
of her poor. And there Geri and Leofric had kept 
house, and told sagas to each other over the beech-log 
fire night after night; for all Leofiic's study was, says 
the Chronicler, " to gather together for the edification of 
his hearers all the acts of giants and warriors out of the 
fables of the ancients, or from faithfiil report; and to 
commit them to writing, that he might keep England in 
mind thereof." Which Leofiic was afterwards ordained 
priest, probably in Ely, by Bishop Egelwin of Durham ; 
and was Hereward's chaplain for many a year. 






i 



The Wake. 53 

Then Hereward, as he had promised, set fire to the 
three farms close to the Bruneswold ; and all his out- 
lawed friends, lurking in the forest, knew by that signal 
that Hereward was come again. So they cleansed 
out the old house, though they did not take down the 
heads from oflf the gable ; and Torfrida went about the 
town, and about it, and confessed that England was after 
all a pleasant place enough. And they were as happy, 
it may be, for a week or two, as ever they had been in 
their lives. 

"And now," said Torfrida, "while you see to your 
anny, I must be doing; for I am a lady now, and 
mistress of great estates. So I must be seeing to the 
poor." 

" But you cannot speak their tongue." 

"Can I not? Do you think that in the face of 
coming to England, and fighting here, and plotting 
here, and being, may be, an EarFs Countess, I have 
not made Martin Lightfoot teach me your English 
tongue, till I can speak it as well as you % I kept that 
hidden as a surprise for you, that you might find 
out; when you most needed, how Torfrida loved 
you." 

"As if I had not found out already I Oh, woman, 
woman ! I verily believe that God made you alone, and 
left the devil to make us butchers of men." 

Meanwhile went round through all the fens, and north 



54 Hereward 

into the Bnmeswold, and away again to Lincoln and 
merry Sherwood, that The Wake was come again. And 
Gilbert of Ghent, keeping Lincoln Castle for the Con- 
queror, was perplexed in mind, and looked well to gates, 
and bars, and sentinels; for Hereward sent him at 
once a message, that forasmuch as he had forgotten his 
warning in Bruges street, and put a rascal cook into his 
mother's manors, he should ride Odin's horse on the 
highest ash in the Bruneswold. 

On which Gilbert of Ghent, inquiring what Odin's 
horse might be, and finding it to signify the ash tree 
whereon, as sacred to Odin, thieves were hanged by 
Danes and Norse, made answer : 

That he Gilbert had not put his cook into Bourne, 
nor otherwise harmed Hereward or his. That Bourne 
had been seized by the king himself, together with Earl 
Morcar's lands in those parts, as all men knew. That 
the said cook so pleased the king with a dish of stewed 
eel-pout, which he served up to him at Cambridge, and 
which the king had never eaten before, that the king 
begged the said cook of him Gilbert and took him 
away; and that after, so he heard, the said cook had 
begged the said manor of Bourne of the king, without 
the knowledge or consent of him Gilbert That he 
therefore knew nought of the matter. That if Hereward 
meant to keep the king's peace, he might live in Bourne 
till Doomsday, for aught he Gilbert cared; But that 



The Wake, 55 

if he and his men meant to break the king's peace, and 
attack Lincohi city, he Gilbert would nail their skins 
to the door of Lincoln Cathedral, as they used to do 
by the heathen Danes in old time. And that, therefore, 
they now understood each other. 

At which Hereward laughed, and said, that they had 
done that for many a year. 

And now poured into Bourne from every side brave 
men and true, some great holders dispossessed of their 
land ; some the sons of holders who were not yet dis- 
possessed; some Morcar's men, some Edwin's, who 
had been turned out by the king; and almost all oi 
them, probably, blood relations of Hereward's, or of 
King Harold's, or of each other. 

To him came '' Guenoch and Alutus Gurgan, foremost 
in all valour and fortitude, tall and large, and ready for 
work," and with them their three nephews, Godwin 
Gille, ^'so called because he was not inferior to that 
Godwin Guthlacsson who is preached much in the fables 
of the ancients," and " Douti and Outi, the twins, alike 
in face and manners;" and Godric, the knight of 

Corby, nephew lOf the " count of Warwick, and thus, 

• 

probably, Hereward's first cousin or nephew;" and 
Tosti of Davenesse, his kinsman; and Azer Vass, 
whose father had possessed Lincobi Tower; and Leo- 
fwin Moue — ^that is, the scythe, so called, "because 
when he was mowing all alone, and twenty country folk 



. 



56 Henward 

set on him with pitchforks and javelins, he slew and 
wounded almost every one, sweeping his scythe among 
them as one that moweth;" and Wluncus the Black- 
face, so called because he once blackened his face with 
coal, and came unknown among the enemy, and slew 
ten of them with one lance; and "Turbertin, a great 
grandson (?) of Earl Edwin;" and Leofwdn Prat (per- 
haps the ancestor of the ancient and honourable house 
of Pratt of Ryston), so called from his " Praet " or craft, 
" because he had often escaped cunningly when taken by 
the enemy, having more than once killed his keepers ; " 
and the steward of Drayton ; and Thurkill, and Utlamhe, 
ue, the outlaw, Hereward's cook; and Oger, Hereward*s 
kinsman; and "Winter and Liveret, two very famous 
ones ;" and Ranald the Seneschal of Ramsey — " he was 
the standard bearer;" and Wulfric the Black and Wul- 
fric the White ; and Hugh the Norman, a priest ; and 
Wulfard, his brother; and Tosti and Godwin of Roth- 
well; and Alsin, and HurkiU; and Hugh the Breton, 
who was Hereward's chaplain; and Whishaw, his brother, 
** a magnificent knight, which two came with him from 
Flanders;" — and so forth: — names njerely, of whom 
naught is known, save, in a few cases, from Domesday- 
book, the manors which they held. But honour to their 
very names* Honour to the last heroes of the old 
English race. 
These valiant gentlemen, with the housecarles whom. 



The Wake, 57 

more or fewer, they would bring with them, constituted 
a formidable force, as after years proved well. But 
having got his men, Hereward's first care was, doubtless, 
to teach them that art of war, of which they, like true 
Englishmen, knew nothing. 

The art of war has changed little, if at all, by the in- 
troduction of gunpowder. The campaigns of Hannibal 
and Caesar succeeded by the same tactics as those of 
Frederic or WelUngton ; and so, as far as we can judge, 
did those of the master-general of his age, William of 
Normandy. 

But of those tactics the English knew nothing. Their 
armies were little more than tumultuous levies, in which 
men marched and fought under local leaders, often 
divided by local jealousies. The commissariats of the 
armies seem to have been so worthless, that they had to 
plunder friends as well as foes as they went along \ and 
with plunder came every sort of excess — as when the 
Northern men, marching down to meet Harold God- 
wmsson, and demand young Edwin as their Earl, laid 
waste, seemingly out of mere brute wantonness, the 
country round Northampton, which must have been in 
Edwin's earldom, or at least in that of his brother 
Morcar. And even the local leaders were not over-well 
obeyed. The reckless spirit of personal independence, 
especially among the Anglo-Danes, prevented anything 
like discipline, or organized movement of masses ; and 



58 Hereward 

made every battle degenerate into a confusion of single 
combats. 

But Hereward had learned that art of war, which 
enabled the French to crush piecemeal with inferior 
numbers^ the vast but straggling levies of the English. 
His men, mostly outlaws and homeless, kept together by 
the pressure from without, and free from local jealousies, 
resembled rather an army of professional soldiers than a 
country posse comitatus. And to the discipline which 
he instilled into them j to his ability in marching and 
manoeuvring troops ; to his care for their food and for 
their transport ; possibly also to his training them in that 
art of fighting on horseback in which the men of 
Wessex, if not the Anglo-Danes of the East, are said to 
have been quite unskilled, — ^in short, to all that he had 
learned as a mercenary under Robert the Frison, and 
among the highly civilized warriors of Flanders and 
Normandy, must be attributed the fiaxrt, that he and his 
little army defied for years the utmost efforts of the 
Frenchmen ; appearing and disappearing with such strange 
swiftness, and conquering against such strange odds, as 
enshrouded the guerilla captain in an atmosphere of xmfdoL 
and wonder, only to be accounted for, in the mind of 
French as well as English, by the supernatural counsels 
of his sorceress wife. 

But Hereward grew anxious and more anxious, as days 
and weeks went on, and yet there was no news of 



The Wake. 59 

Asbiom and his Danes at Norwich. Time was precious. 
He had to march his little anny to the Wash, and then 
transport it by boats — ^no easy matter — ^to L3ain in 
Norfolk, as his nearest point of attack. And as the time 
went on, Earl Warren and Ralph de Guader would have 
gathered their forces between him and the Danes ; and 
a landing at Lynn might become impossible. Meanwhile 
there were bruits of great doings in the north of Lin- 
colnshire. Young Earl Waltheof was said to be there, 
and Edgar the Atheling with him: but what it por- 
tended, no man knew. Morcar was said to have raised 
the centre of Mercia, and to be near Stafford ; Edwin to 
have raised the Welsh, and to be at Chester with Ald- 
ytha his sister. And Hereward sent spies along the 
Ermine Street — ^the only road, then, toward the north- 
west of England — and spies northward along the Roman 
road to Lincoln. But the former met the French in 
force near Nottingham, and came back much faster 
than they went. And the latter stumbled on Gilbert of 
Ghent, riding out of Lincoln to Folkingham, and had to 
flee into the fens, and came back much slower than they 
went. 

At last news came. For into Bourne stalked Walfric 
the Heron, with axe, and bow, and leaping-pole on 
shoulder \ and an evil tale he brought 

The Danes had been beaten utterly at Norwich. 
Ralph de Guader and his Frenchmen had fought like 



6o Hereward 

lions. They had killed many Danes in the assault on the 
<:astle. They had sallied out on them as they recoiled ; 
and driven them into the river, drowning many more. 
The Danes had gone down the Yare again, and out to 
sea northward, no man knew whither. He, the Heron, 
prowling about the fenlands of Norfolk to pick off 
straggling Frenchmen and look out for the Danes, had 
heard all the news from the landsfolk. He had watched 
the Danish fleet along the shore as far as Blakeney. But 
when they came to the isle, they stood out to sea, right 
north-west. He, the Heron, believed that they were 
gone for Humber Mouth. 

After a while, he had heard how Hereward was come 
again, and had sent round the war-arrow j and it seemed 
to him that a landless man could be in no better com- 
pany ; wherefore he had taken boat, and come across the 
deep fen. And there he was, if they had need of him. 

" Need of you % " said Hereward, who had heard of 
the deed at Wrokesham Bridge. " Need of a hundred 
like you. But this is bitter news." 

And he went in to ask counsel of Torfrida, ready to 
weep with rage. He had disappointed^-deceived his 
men. He had drawn them into a snare. He had pro- 
mised that the Danes should come. How should he look 
them in the face ? 

" Look them in the face ? Do that at once : now : 
without losing a moment Call them together and tell 



The Wake. 6i 

tiiem alL If their hearts are staunch, you may do great 
things without the traitor Earl. If their hearts fail them, 
you would have done nothing with them worthy of 
yourself, had you had Norway as well as Denmark at 
your back. At least, be true with them, as your only 
chance of keeping them true to you." 

"Wise, wise wife," said Hereward, and went out 
and called his band together, and told them every 
word, and all that had passed since he left Calais 
Straits. 

" And now I have deceived you, and entrapped you, 
and I have no right to be your captain more. He that 
will depart in peace, let him depart, before the French- 
men close in on us on every side and swallow us up at 
one mouthful" 

Not a man answered. 

**I say it again: He that will depart, let him de- 
part." 

They stood thoughtful. 

Ranald of Ramsey, drove the Wake-knot banner 
firm into the earth, tucked up his monk's frock, and 
threw his long axe over his shoulder, as if preparing 
for action. 

Winter spoke at last 

" If all go, there are two men here who stay, and fight 
by Hereward's side as long as there is a Frenchman left 
on English soil; for they have sworn an oath to Heaven 



62 Hcreward 

and to St Peter, and that oath will they keep. What say 
you, Gwenoch, knighted with us at Peterborough 1" 

Gwenoch stepped to Hereward's side. 

" None shall go ! " shouted a dozen voices. " With 
Hereward we will live and die. Let him lead us to 
Lincoln, to Nottingham — where he wilL We can save 
England for ourselves without the help of Danes." 

" It is well for one at least of you, gentlemen, that 
you are in this pleasant mind," quoth Ranald the 
monk. 

"Well for all of us, thou valiant purveyor of beef and 
beer." • 

" Well for one. For the first man that had turned to 
go, I would have brained him with this axe." 

^'And now, gallant gentlemen," said Hereward, "we 
must take new counsel, as our old has failed. Whither 
shall we go 1 For stay here, eating up the coimtiy, we 
must not do." 

" They say that Waltheof is in Lindsey, raising the 
landsfolk. Let us go and join him." 

" We can at least find what he means to do. There 
can be no better counsel Let us march. Only we 
must keep clear of Lincoln as yet I hear that Gilbert 
has a strong garrison there; and we are not strong 
enough yet to force it" 

So they rode north, and up the Roman road toward 
Lincoln, sending out spies as they went ; and soon they 



The Wake. 63 

had news of Waltheo£ News, too, that he was betweea 
them and Lincoln. 

** Then the sooner we are with hixn, the better : for he 
will find himself in trouble ere long; if old Gilbert comes 
up with him. So run your best, footmen, for forward we 
must get*' 

And as they came up the Roman road, they were 
aware of a great press of men in front of them, and hard 
fil^iting toward. 

Some of the English would have spurred forward at 
once. But Hereward held them back with loud re- 
proaches. 

"Will you foiget all I have told you in the first 
skirmish, like so many dogs when they see a bull? 
Keep together for five minutes more. The pot will 
not be cool before we get our sup of it I verily believe 
that it is Waltheof : and that Gilbert has caught him 
already." 

As he spoke, one part of the combatants broke up, and 
fled right and left j and a knight in full armour galloped 
furiously down the road right at them, followed by two 
or three more. 

" Here comes some one very valiant or very much 
afeard," said Hereward, as the horseman rode right 
upon him, shouting : 

"I am the king!" 
The kingi" roared Hereward, and dropping his 



c< 



64 Hereward \ 

lance, spurred his horse forward, kicking his feet clear of 
the stirrups. He caught the knight round the neck, 
dragged him over his horse's tail, and fell with him to the 
ground. 

The armour clashed ; the sparks flew from the old grey 
Roman flints \ and Hereward, rolling over once, rose, and 
knelt upon his prisoner. 

" William of Normandy ! yield or die ! " 

The knight lay still and stark. 

** Ride on ! " cried Hereward from the ground. " Ride 
at them and strike hard ! You will soon find out which 
is which. This booty I must pick for myself What 
are you doing 1 " roared he, after his knights. " Spread 
off" the road, and keep your line, as I told you, and don't 
override each other ! Curse the hot-headed fools ! The 
French will scatter them like sparrows. Run on, men- 
at-arms, to stop the French if we are broken. And don't 
forget Guisnes field and the horses' legs. Now, king, are 
you come to life yet % "- 

"You have killed him," quoth Leofric the deacon, 
whom Hereward had beckoned to stop with him. 

"I hope not Lend me a knife. He is a much 
slighter man than I fancied," said Hereward, as they got 
his helmet off*. 

And when it was off", both started and stared. For 
they had uncovered, not the beetling brow, Roman nose, 
and firm curved lip of the Ulysses of the middle age, but 



The Wake, 65 

the face of a &ir lad, with long straw-coloured hair, and 
soft blue eyes staring into vacancy. 

" Who are you 1 *' shouted Hereward, saying very bad 
words, " who come here, aping the name of king ] " 

"Mother! Christina! Margaret! Waltheof Earl!" 
moaned the lad, raising his head and letting it fall 
again. 

" It is the Atheling ! " cried Leofric 

Hereward rose, and stood over the boy. 

"Ah ! what was I doing to handle him so tenderly? 
I took him for The Mamzer, and thought of a king's 



ransom." 



(( 



Do you call that tenderly 1 You have nigh pulled 
the boy's head off.*' 

" Would that I had ! Ah ! " went on Hereward, 
apostrophising the unconscious Atheling, "ah, that I 
had broken that white neck once and for all ! To have 
sent thee feet foremost to Winchester, to lie by thy grand- 
fathers and great-grandfathers, and then to tell Norman 
William that he must fight it out henceforth not with a 
straw maUcin like thee, which the very crows are not 
afraid to perch on, but with a cock of a very different 
hackle, Sweyn Ulfsson, King of Denmark." 

And Hereward drew Brain-biter. 

" For mercy's sake ! you will not harm the lad ? " 

**Jf I were a wise man now, and hard-hearted as wise 
men should be, I should— I should — "and he played 

VOL. II. F 



^6 . Hereward 

the point of the sword backwards and forwards/nearer 
and nearer to the lad's throat. 

" Master! master!" cried Leofric, clinging to his 
Icnees; ''by all the saints! What would Our Lady 
in Heaven say to such a deed % " 

" Well, I suppose you are right And I fear what our 
lady at home might say likewise : and we must not do 
an3rthing to vex her, you know. Well, let us do it 
handsomely, if we must do it. Get water somewhere, 
in his helmet. No, you need not linger. I will not cut 
liis throat before you come back." 

Leofric went off in search of water ; and Hereward 
Imelt with the Atheling's head on hi& knee, and on 
his lip a sneer at all things in heaven and earth. To 
liave that lad stand between him and all his projects : 
and to be forced, for honours sake, to let him 
'45tand ! 

But soon his men returned, seemingly in high glee, 
and other knights with them. 

" Hey, lads ! " said he, " I aimed at the falcon and 
^hot the goose. Here is Edgar Atheling prisoner. Sball 
we put him to ransom?" 

'' He has no money, and Malcolm of Scotland is 
much too wise to lend him any," said some one. And 
.some more rough jokes passed. 

" Do you know, sirs, that he who lies there is your 
Icing % " asked a very tall and noble-looking knight. 






7}^^ Wake. 67 

"That do we not," said Hereward sharply. "There 
is no king in England this day, as far as I know. And 
there will be none north of the Watling Street, till he be 
chosen in full hiisting, and anointed at York, as well as 
at Winchester or London. We have had one king made 
for us in the last forty years, and we intend to make the 
next ourselves/' 

"And who art thou, who talkest so bold of king- 
making 1 " 

" And who art thou, who askest so bold who I ami" 

" I am Waltheof Siwardsson, the Earl, and xon is my 
army behind me." 

**And I am Hereward Leofricsson, the Wake, and 
yon is my army behind me." 

If the two champions had flown at each other's 
throats, and their armies had followed their example, 
simply as dogs fly at each other they know not why, no 
one would have been astonished in those unhappy 
times. 

But it fell not out upon that wise ; for Waltheof, leap- 
ing from his horse, pulled off his helmet, and seizing 
Hereward by both hands, cried : 

"Blessed is the day which sees again in England 
Hereward, who has upheld throughout all lands and 
seas the honour of English chivalry ! " 

" And blessed is the day in which Hereward meets 
the head of the house of Siward where he should be, at 

F 2 



68 Hereward 

the head of his own men, in his own earldom. When I 
saw my friend, thy brother Asbiom Bulax, brought into 
the camp at Dunsinane with all his wounds in front, I 
wept a young man's tears, and said, ' There ends the 
glory of the White-Bears* house ! * But this day I say — 
The White-Bears' blood is risen from the grave in 
Waltheof Siwardsson, who with his single axe kept the 
gate of York against all the army of the French ; and 
who shall keep against them all England, if he will be as 
wise as he is brave." 

Was I^ereward honest in his words ? Hardly so. He 
wished to be honest As he looked upon that magnifi- 
cent young man, he hoped and trusted that his words 
were true. But he gave a second look at the face, and 
whispered to himself, ''Weak, weak. He will be led 
by priests : perhaps by William himself. I must be 
courteous : but confide I must not" 

The men stood round, and looked with admiration on 
the two most splendid Englishmen then alive. Hereward 
had taken off his helmet likewise, and the contrast 
between the two was as striking as the completeness of 
each of them in his own style of beauty. It was the 
contrast between the slow-hound and the deer-hound : 
each alike high-couraged and high-bred j but the former, 
short, sturdy, cheerful, and sagacious; the latter tall, 
stately, melancholy, and not over wise withal. 

Waltheof was a full head and shoulders taller than 



i 



JTic Wake. 

Hereward. He was one of the tallest men of I 
tion, and of a strength which would have beei 
\ but for the too great length of neck and lir 

made him loose and slow in body, as he was 
loose and slow in mind An old man's child 
that old man was one of the old giants, there 
of weakness in him, which showed in the ai 
brow, the sleepy pale blue eye, the small soft i 
lazy voice, the narrow and lofty brain over 
brow. His face was not that of a warrior, but 
in a painted window; and to his own place 
and became a saint, in his due time. But tha 
out-general William; that he could even ma 
patric and his intrigues, Hereward expected \ 
that his own nephews Edwin and Morcar coul 
"I have to thank you, noble sir," said 
languidly, " for sending your knights to our re 
we were really hard bestead — I fear much b] 
fault. Had they told me whose men they wen 
not have spoken to you so roughly as I fear I 
"There is no oflfence. Let Englishmen s 
minds, as long as English land is above sea. 
did you get into trouble, and with whom % " 

Waltheof told him how he was going i 
country, raising forces in the name of the 
when, as they were straggling along the Ro 
Gilbert of Ghent had dashed out on them fro 



70 Hereward 

cut their line in two, driven Waltheof one way, and the 
Atheling another \ so that the Atheling had only escaped 
by riding, as they saw, for his life. 

" Well done, old Gilbert ! " laughed Hereward. " You 
must beware, my Lord Earl, how you venture within 
reach of that old bear's paw." 

" Bear ? By-the-by, Sir Hereward," asked Waltheof, 
whose thoughts ran loosely right and left, '^they told 
me that you carried a white bear on your banner : but I 
only see a knot." 

" Ah % I have parted with my old bear, all save his 
skin ; for keeping which, by-the-by, your house ought 
to have a blood-feud against me. I slew your great- 
uncle, or cousin, or some other kinsman, at Gilbert's 
house in Scotland long ago j and since then I sleep on 
his skin every night, and used to cany his picture in my 
banner all day." 

" Blood-feuds are solemn things," said Waltheof, 
frowning. "Karl killed my grandfether Aldred at the 
battle of Settrington, and his four sons are with the army 
at York now ^" 

" For the love of all saints and of England, do not 
think of avenging that ! Every man must now put away- 
old grudges, and remember that he has but one foe, 
'\yilliam and his Frenchmen." 

" Very nobly spoken. But those sons of Karl— and I 
think you said you had killed a kinsman of mine 1 " , 



The Wake, 71 

" It was a bear, Lord Earl, a great white bcar^ 
Cannot you understand a jesti Or are you going to 
take up the quarrels of all white bears that are slain 
between here and Iceland? You will end by burning. 
Crowland Minster then; for there are twelve of your 
kinsmen's skins there, which Canute gave forty yeais: 
ago." 

''Bum Crowland Minster 1 St Guthlac and all saints; 
forbid ! " said Waltheof, crossing himself devoutly. 

'' Are you a monk-monger into the bargain, as well as; 
a dolt I A bad prospect for us, if you are," said Here- 
ward to himself. 

" K^^ my dear Lord King ! '* said Waltheof, " and yoifc 
are recovering]" 

" Somewhat,** said the lad, sitting up, " under the care 
of this kind knight** 

" He is a monk, Sir Atheling, and not a knight,'* said' 
Hereward. ''Our fen men can wear a mail-shirt as^ 
easily as a frock, and handle a twybill as neatly as a 
breviary." 

Waltheof shook his head. "It is contrary to the 
canons of Holy Church.** 

f' So are many things that are done in England just 
now. Need has no master. Now, Sir Earl and Sir 
Atheling, what are you going to do ? ** 

Neither of them, it seemed, very well knew. They 
would go to York if they could get there, and join 



72 Hereward 

Gospatric and Merlesweyn. And certainly it was the 
most reasonable thing to be done. 

" But if you mean to get to York, you must march 
after another fashion than this," said Hereward. " See^ 
Sir Earl, why you were broken by Gilbert ; and why you 
will be broken again, if this order holds. If you march 

your men along one of these old Roman streets By 

St Mary, these Romans had more wits than we ; for we 
have spoilt the roads they left us, and never made a new 
one of our own " 

" They were heathens and enchanters," — ^and Waltheot 
crossed himself. 

"And conquered the world. Well — if you march 
along one of these streets, you must ride as I rode, when 
I came up to you. You must not let your knights go 
first, and your men-at-arms straggle after in a tail a mile 
long, like a scratch pack of hounds, all sizes except each 
others*. You must keep your footmen on the high street; 
and make your knights ride in two bodies, right and left, 
upon the wold, to protect their flanks and baggage." 

" But the knights will not. As gentlemen, they have 
a right to the best ground." 

" Then they may go to whither they will go, if 

the French come upon them. If they are on the flanks, 
and you are attacked, then they can charge in right and 
left on the enemy's flank, while the footmen make a 
stand to cover the waggons." 



The Wake. 73 

« Yes— that is very good; I believe that is your 
French fashion T* 

"It is the fashion of common-sense, like all things 
which succeed." 

" But, you see, the knights would not submit to ride 
in the mire." 

"Then you must make them. What else have they 
horses for, while honester men than they trudge on 
foot?" 

"Make them*?" said Waltheof, with a shrug and a 
smile. " They are all free gentlemen, like ourselves." 

"And, like ourselves, will come to utter ruin, because 
every one of them must needs go his own way." 

"I am glad," said Waltheof, as they rode along, " that 
you called this my earldom. I hold it to be mine of 
course, in right of my father: but the landsfolk, you 
tnow, gave it to your nephew Morcar." 

" I care not to whom it is given. I care for the man 
whq is on it, to raise these landsfolk, and make them 
iight. You are here : therefore you are Earl." 
" Yes, the powers that be are ordained by God." 
"You must not strain that text too far. Lord Earl; 
for the only power that is, whom I see in England — 
worse luck for it — ^is William the Mamzer.", 
" So I have often thought" 

"You have] As I feared!" (To himself) " The pike 
will have you again, gudgeon ! " 



74 Hereward 

" He has with him the Holy Father at Rome, and 
therefore the Blessed Apostle St. Peter of course. And 
—is a man right in the sight of Heaven, who resists 
them 1 I only say it — ^but where a man looks to the 
salvation of his own soul — he must needs think thereof 
seriously at least." 

"Oh, are you at that?'' thought Hereward. "Tout 
est, perdu. The question is, Earl," said he aloud, 
" simply this. How^ many men can you raise off this 
shire 1 " 

" I have raised — not so many as I could wish. Harold 
and Edith's men have joined me fairly well : but your 
nephew, Morcar's " 

" I can command them. I have half of them here 
already." 

"Then — then we may raise the resti" 

" That depends, my Lord Earl, for whom we fight ! " 

" For whom % — I do riot understand." 

"Whether we fight for that lad — Child Edgar — or for 
Sweyn of Denmark, the rightfiil king of England." 

" Sweyn of Denmark ! Who should be the rightful 
king, but the heir of the blessed St Edward?" 

" Blessed old fool ! He has done harm to us enough 
on earth, without leaving us his second-cousin's aunt's 
malkins to harm us after he is in Heaven." 

"Sir Hereward, Sir Hereward, I fear thou art not as 
good a Christian as so good a knight should be." 



i 



The Wake. 75 

"Christian or not, I am as good a one as my neigh- 
bours. I am Leofric's son. Leofric put Harthacanute 
on the throne ; and your father, who was a man, helped 
him. You know what has befallen England, since we 
Danes left the Danish stock at Godwin's bidding, and 
put our necks under the yoke of Wessex monks and 
monk-mongers. You may follow your father's track, or 
not, as you like. I shall follow my father's, and fight 
for Sweyn Ulffson, and no man else." 

" And I," said Waltheof, " shall follow the anointed of 
the Lord" 

" The anointed of Gospatric and two or three boys ! " 
said Hereward. " Knights I Turn your horses' heads. 
Right about face all ! We are going back to the Brunes- 
wold, to live and die free Danes." 

And to Waltheofs astonishment, who had never before 
seen discipline, the knights wheeled round ; the men-at- 
arais followed them; and Waltheof and the Atheling 
were left to themselves on Lincoln Heath. 



76 Hereward 



CHAPTER V. 

HOW ARCHBISHOP ALDRED DIED OF SORROW. 

In the tragedies of the next few months Hereward 
took no part \ but they must be looked at near, in order 
to understand somewhat of the men who were after- 
wards mixed up with him for weal and woe. 

When William went back to the South, the confede- 
rates, Child Edgar the Atheling, Gospatric, and their 
friends, had come south again from Durham. It was 
undignified \ a confession of weakness. If a Frenchman 
had likened them to mice coming out when the cat went 
away, none could blame him. But so they did; and 
Asbiom and his Danes, landing in Humber-mouth, 
" were met (says the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle) by Child 
Edgar and Earl Waltheof and Merlesweyn, and Earl 
Gospatric with the men of Northimiberland, riding and 
marching joyfully with an immense army;'' not having 
the spirit of prophecy, or foreseeing those things which 
were coming on the earth. 

To them repaired Edwin and Morcar, the two young 
Earls ; Arkill and Karl, '' the great Thanes ; '* or at least 



The Wake. 7y 

« 

the four sons of Karl — ^for accounts differ; and what 
few else of the northern nobility Tosti had left un- 
murdered. 

The men of Northumberland received the Danes with 
open arms. They would besiege York. They would 
storm the new French Keep. They would proclaim 
Edgar king at York. 

In that Keep sat two men, one of whom knew his own 
mind, the other did not One was William Malet, 
knight, one of the heroes of Hastings, a noble Norman, 
and chatelain of York Castle. The other was Arch- 
bishop Aldred. 

Aldred seems to have been a man like too many more 
— ^pious, and virtuous, and harmless enough, and not 
without worldly prudence : but his prudence was of that 
sort which will surely swim with the stream, and " honour 
the powers that be," if they be but prosperous enough. 
For after all, if success be not God, it is like enough to 
Him in some men's eyes to do instead. So Archbishop 
Aldred had crowned Harold Godwinsson, when Harold's 
star was in the ascendant.* And who but Archbishop 
Aldred should crown William, when his star had cast 
Harold's down from heaven % He would have crowned 
Satanas himself, had he only proved himself king de fecto 
— as he asserts himself to be de jure — of this wicked world. 

* So says Florence of Worcester. The Norman chroniclers 
impute the act to Stigand. 



78 Here ward 

So Aldred, who had not only crowned William, but 
supported his power north of Humber by all means 
lawful, sat in York Keep, and looked at William Malet, 
wondering what he would do. • 

Malet would hold out to the last As for the new 
Keep, it was surely impregnable. The old walls — the 
Roman walls on which had floated the flag of Constan- 
tine the Great — ^were surely strong enough to keep out 
men without battering-rams, balistas, or artillery* of any 
kind. What mattered Asbiom*s two hundred and forty 
ships, and their crews of some ten or fifteen thousand 
men 1 What mattered the tens of thousands of Northern 
men, with Gospatric at their head % Let them rage and 
rob round the walls. A messenger had galloped in 
from William in the Forest of Dean, to tell Malet to 
hold out to the last He had galloped out again, 
bearing for answer, that the Normans could hold York 
for a year. 

But the Archbishop's heart misgave him, as from north 
and south at once came up the dark masses of two 
mighty armies, broke into columns, and surged against 
«very gate of the city at the same time. They had no 
"battering train to breach the ancient walls : but they had 
— and none knew it better than Aldred — ^hundreds of 



* Artillery is here used in its old English meaning, for any kind 
of warlike engine. Cf. i Samuel xx. 40. 



TTie Wake. 79 

friends inside, who would throw open to them the 
gates. 

One gate he could command from the Castle tower. 
His face turned* pale as he saw a mob of armed towns* 
men rushing down the street towards it ; a furious scuffle 
with the French guards ; and then, through the gateway, 
the open champaign beyond, and a gleaming wave of 
axes, helms, and spears, pouring in, and up the street 

" The traitors ! " he almost shrieked, as he turned 
and ran down the ladder to tell Malet below. 

Maiet was firm, but pale as Aldred. 

" We must fight to the last,*' said he, as he hurried 
down, commanding his men to sally at once en masse 
and clear the city. 

The mistake was fatal The French were entangled 
in the narrow streets. The houses, shut to them, were 
opened to the English and Danes ; and, overwhelmed 
from above, as well as in front, the greater part of the 
French garrison perished in the first fight. The rem- 
nant were shut up in the Castle. The Danes and 
English seized the houses round, and shot from the 
windows at every loophole and embrasure where a 
Frenchman showed himself. 

'' Shoot fire upon the houses ! ^ said Malet 

"You will not bum York % Oh, God I is it come to 
this?" 

"And why not York town, or York Minster, or 



8o Hereward 

Rome itself with the Pope inside it, rather than yield 
to barbarians 1 " 

Archbishop Aldred went into his room, and lay down 
on his bed. Outside was the roar of the battle ; and 
soon, louder and louder, the roar of flame. This was 
the end of his timeserving and king-making. And 
he said many prayers, and beat his breast; and then 
called to his chaplain for clothes, for he was very cold. 
** I have slain my own sheep," he moaned, " slain my 
own sheep 1 " 

His chaplain hapt him up in bed, and looked out 
of the window at the fight. There was no lull, neither 
was there any great advantage on either side. Only 
from the southward he could see fresh bodies of Danes 
coming across the plain. 

"The carcase is here, and the eagles are gathered 
together. Fetch me the Holy Sacrament, chaplain, and 
God be merciful to an unfaithful shepherd.**. 

The chaplain went. 

"I have slain my own sheep," moaned the Arch- 
bishop. " I have given them up to the wolves — ^given 
mine own Minster, and all the treasures of the Saints, 
and — and — I am very cold." 

When the chaplain came back with the blessed Sacra- 
ment, Archbishop Aldred was more than cold ; for he 
was already dead and stiff. But William Malet would 
not yield. He and his Frenchmen fought, day after day. 



The Wake, 8i I 



with the energy of despair. They asked leave to put 
forth the body of the Archbishop ; and young Waltheof, 
who was a pious man, insisted that leave should be given. 

So the Archishop's coffin was thrust forth of the castle- 
gate, and the monks from the abbey came and bore it 
away, and buried it in the cathedral-church. 

And then the fight went on, day after day ; and more 
houses burned, till York was all aflame. On the eighth 
day the Minster was in a light low over Archbishop 
Aldred*s new-made grave. All was burnt; Minster, 
Churches, old Roman palaces, and all the glories of 
Constantine the Great and the mythic past. 

The besiegers, hewing and hammering gate after gate, 
had now won all but the Keep itself. Then Malefs 
heart failed him. A wife he had, and children; for 
their sake he tiuned coward ; and fled by night, with a 
few men-at-arms, across the burning ruins. 

Then, into what once was York, the confederate Earls 
and Thanes marched in triumph, and proclaimed Edgar 
king — a king of dust and ashes. 

And where were Edwin and Morcar the meanwhile? 
It is not told. Were they struggling against William at 
Stafibrd, or helping Edric the Wild and his Welshmen 
to besiege Chester? Probably they were aiding the 
insurrection, if not at these two points, still at some other 
of their great Earldoms of Mercia and Chester. They 
seemed to triumph for a while : during the autumn of 

VOL. II. G 



82 Hereward 

1069 the greater part of England seemed lost to William. 
Many Normans packed up their plunder and went back 
to France; and those whose hearts were too stout to 
return showed no mercy to the English, even as William 
showed none. To crush the heart of the pe(q>le, by 
massacres, and mutilations, and devastations, was the 
only hope of the invader : and thoroughly he did his 
work whenever he had a chance. 



The Wake. S^ 



CHAPTER VI. 

HOW HEREWARD FOUND A WISER MAN IN ENGLAND 

THAN HIMSELF. 

There have been certain men so great, that he wh(>^ 
describes them in words — much more pretends to analyze 
their inmost feelings — must be a very great man himself, 
or incur the accusation of presumption. And such a 
great man was William of Normandy, — one of those un- 
fathomable master-personages, who must not be rashly 
dragged on any stage. The genius of a Bulwer, in at- 
tempting to draw him, took care with a wise modesty, 
not to draw him in too much detail : to confess always, 
that there was much beneath and behind in William's 
character, which none, even of his contemporaries, 
could guess. And still more modest than Bulwer is 
this chronicler bound to be. 

But one may fancy, for once in a way, what William's 
thoughts were, when they brought him the evil news of 
York. For we know what his acts were ; and he acted 
up to his thoughts. 

Hunting he was,'they say, in the Forest of Dean, when 
first he heard that all England, north of the Watling. 

G 2 



■J 



84 Hereward 

Street, had broken loose, and that he was king of only 
half the isle. 

Did he — as when, hunting in the forest of Rouen, he 
got the news of Harold's coronation — play with his bow, 
stringing and unstringing it nervously, till he had made 
up his mighty mind? Then did he go home to his 
lodge, and there spread on the rough oak board a parch- 
ment map of England, which no child would deign to 
learn from now, but was then good enough to guide 
armies to victory, because the eyes of a great general 
looked upon it % 

As he pored over the map, by the light of bog-deal 
torch or rush candle, what would he see upon it % 

Three separate blazes of insiurection, from north-west 
to east, along the Watling Street 

At Chester, Edric, " the wild Thane," who, according 
to Domesday-book, had lost vast lands in Shropshire ; 
Algitha, Harold's widow; and Blethwallon and all his 
Welsh; "the white mantles" swarming along Chester 
streets, not as usually, to tear and ravage like the wild 
cats of their own rocks, but fast friends by blood with 
Aldytha, once their queen on Penmaenmawr.* Edwin, 
the young Earl, Algitha's brother, Hereward's nephew — 
he must be with them too, if he were a man. 

Eastward, round Staflford, and the centre of Mercia, 

* See the admirable description of the tragedy of Penmaeiunawi, 
inBulwer's "Harold." 



T7u Wake. 85 

another blaze of furious English valour. Morcar, 
Edwin's brother, must be there, as their Earl, if he tob 
was a man. 

Then in the fens and Kesteven. What meant this 
news, that Hereward of St. Omer was come again, and 
an army with him? That he was lev)dng war on all 
Frenchmen, in the name of Sweyn, King of Denmark 
and of England? He is an outlaw, a desperado, a 
boastful swash-buckler, thought William, it may be, to 
himself. He found out, in after years, that he had 
mistaken his man. 

And north, at York, in the rear of those three insur- 
rections, lay Gospatric, Waltheof, and Merlesweyn, with 
the Northumbrian host. Durham was lost, and Comyn 
burnt therein. But York, so boasted William Malet, 
could hold out for a year. He should not need to hold 
out for so long. 

And last, and worst of all, hung on the eastern coast 
the mighty fleet of Sweyn, who claimed England as his 
of right. The foe whom he had most feared ever since 
he set foot on English soil, a collision with whom had 
been inevitable all along, was come at last : but where 
would he strike his blow % 

William knew, doubt it not, that the Danes had been 
defeated at Norwich : he knew, doubt it not, for his 
spies told him everything, that they had purposed enter- 
ing the Wash. To prevent a junction between them and 



^6 Hertward 

Here ward was impossible. He must prevent arjimction 
l>etween them and Edwin and Morcar. 

He determined, it seems — ^for he did it — to cut the 
English line in two, and marched upon Stafford as its 
•centre. 

But all records of these campaigns are fragmentary, 
•confused, contradictory. The Normans fought, £lnd 
had no time to write history. The English,, beaten 
and crushed, died and left no sign. The only chroni- 
clersof the time are monks. And little could Orde- 
ricus Vitalis, or Florence of Worcester, or hei of 
Peterborough, faithful as he was, who filled up the sad 
ps^es of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle— little could they 
see or understand of the masterly strategy which' was 
conquering all England for Norman monks, in order tteit 
$hey, following the army like black ravens, might feast 
ithemselves upon the prey which others won for thexn. 
To thepa, the death of an abbot, the squabbles of a 
monastery, the journey of a prelate to Rome, sure more 
important than the manoeuvres which decided the life 
and freedom of tens of thousands. 

So all we know is, that William fell upon Morcar's 
men at Stafford, and smote them with a great destruc- 
tion ; rolling the fugitives west and east, toward Edwin, 
perhaps, at Chester, certainly toward Hereward in the 
fens. 

At Stafford met him the fugitives from York, Malet, 



The Wake. 8j 

his wife, and children, with the dreadful news that the 
Danes had joined Gospatric, and that York was lost . 

William burst into fiendish fiiry. He accused the 
wretched men of treasjon. He cut 6S their hands, thrust 
out' their eyes ; threw Malet into prison, and stormed on 
northward 

He lay at Pontefract for three weeks. The bridges 
over the Aire were broken down. But at last he crossed 
and marched on York. 

No man opposed him. The Danes were gone down 
to the Humber. Gospatric and Waltheofs hearts had 
flailed them; and they had retired before the great 
captain. 

Florence of Worcester says that William bought Earl 
Asbiom off, giving him much money, and leave to forage 
for his fleet along the coast. 

Doubtless William would have so done if he could. 
Doubtless the ahgry and disappointed English raised 
such accusations against the Earl, believing them to be 
true. But is n6t the simpler cause of Asbiom^s conduct 
to be found in the plain facts ) — ^That he had sailed from 
Denmark to put Sweyn, his brother, on the throne. He 
found on his arrival that Gospatric and Waltheof had 
seized it in the name of Edgar Atheling. What had he 
to do more in England, save what he did 1 — ^go out into 
the Humber, and winter safely there, waiting till Swejni 
should come with reinforcements in the spring? 



88 Hereward 

Then William had his revenge : he destroyed, in the 
language of Scripture, "the life of the land." Far and 
wide the farms were burnt over their owners' heads, the 
growing crops upon the ground ; the horses were houghed, 
the cattle driven off ; while of human death and misery 
there was no end. Yorkshire and much of the neigh- 
bouring counties lay waste for the next nine years. It 
did not recover itself fully till several generations after. 

The Danes had boasted that they would keep their 
Yule at York*. William kept his Yule there instead. 
He sent to Winchester for the regalia of the Confessor ; 
and in the midst of the blackened ruins, while the 
English for miles around wandered starving in the snows, 
feeding on carrion, on rats and mice, and at last upon 
each other's corpses, he sat in his royal robes, and gave 
away the lands of Edwin and Morcar to his liegemen. 
And thus, like the Romans, from whom he derived both 
his strategy and his civilization, he " made a solitude, 
and called it peace." 

He did not give away Waltheofs lands; and only 
part of Gospatric's. He wanted Gospatric; he loved 
Waltheof, and wanted him likewise. 

Therefore through the desert which he himself had 
made he forced his way up to the Tees a second time, 
over snow-covered moors; and this time St. Cuthbert 
sent no fog, being satisfied presumably with William's 
orthodox attachment to St. Peter and Rome ; so the 



\ 



The Wake. 89 

Conqueror treated quietly with Waltheof and Gospatric, 
who lay at DurhanL 

Gospatric got an earldom, from Tees to Tyne ; and 
paid down for it much hard money and treasure; — 
bought it, in fact, he said. 

Waltheof got back his earldom, and much of Morcar's. 
From the fens to the Tees, was to be his province. 

And then, to the astonishment alike of Normans and 
English, and it may be, of himself, he married Judith, 
the Conqueror's niece ; and became once more William's 
loved and trusted friend — or slave. 

It seems inexplicable at first sight. Inexplicable, save 
as an instance of that fascination which the strong some- 
times exercise over the weak. 

Then William turned south-west. Edwin, wild Edric 
the dispossessed Thane of Shropshire, and the wilder 
Blethwallon and his Welshmen, were still harrying and 
slaying. They had just attacked Shrewsbury. William 
would come upon them by a way they thought not of. 

So over the backbone of England ; by way probably 
of Halifax, or Huddersfield; through pathless moors 
and bogs, down towards the plains of Lancashire and 
Cheshire, he pushed over and on. His soldiers from 
the plains of sunny France could not face the cold, 
the rain, the morasses, the hideous gorges, the valiant 
peasants — still the finest and shrewdest race of men in 
all England — who set upon them in wooded glens, or 



<90 Hereward 

rolled stones on them from the limestone crags. They 
prayed to be dismissed, to go home. 

" Cowards might go back," said William ; " he should 
:go on." If he could not ride, he would walk. Whoever 
lagged, he would be foremost And cheered by his 
•example, the army at last debouched upon the Cheshire 
fiats. 

Then he fell upon Edwin, as he had fallen upon 
Morcar. He drove the wild Welsh through the pass of 
Mold, and up into their native hills. He laid all waste 
with fire and sword for many a mile, as Domesday-book 
testifies to this day. He strengthened the walls of 
Chester ; trampled out the last embers of rebellion ; and 
went down south to Salisbury, King of , England once 
again. 

Why did he not push on at once against the one 
rebellion lefl alight, that of Hereward and his fen-men ? 

It may be that he understood him and. them. It may 
be that he meant to treat with Sweyn, as he h^d done^.if 
the story be true, with Asbiom. It is more likely that 
he could do no more ; that his army, after so swift and 
long a campaign, required rest It may be that the time 
of service of many of his mercenaries was expired. Be 
that as it may, he mustered them at Old Sarum — the 
Roman British burgh which still stands on the down 
side — and rewarded them, according to their deserts, 
from the lands of the conquered English. 



The Wake. 91 

How soon Hereward knew all tios, or how be passed 
the winter <tf 1070-71, we cannot tell. But to him it 
must have been a winter of bitter, perplexity. 

It was impossible to get information from Edwin ; and 
news from York was almost impossible to get; for 
Gilbert of Ghent stood between him and it 

He felt himself now pent in, all but trapped. Since 
he had set foot last in England ugly things had risen up, 
on which he had calculated too little, namely Norman 
castles. A whole ring of them in Norfolk and Suffolk 
cut him off from the south. A castle at Cambridge 
closed the south end of the fens; another at Bedford, 
the western end ; while Lincoln Castle to the north cut 
him off from York. 

His men did not see the difficulty ; and wanted him 
to march towards York, and clear all Lindsey and right 
up to the Humber. 

Gladly would he have done so, when he heard that 
the Danes were wintering in the Humber. 

" But how can we take Lincoln Castle without artillery, 
or even a battering rami " 

" Let us march past it, then, and leave it behind." 

" Ah, my sons," said Hereward laughing sadly, " do 
you suppose that The Mamzer spends his time — ^and 
Englishmen's life and labour — in heaping up those great 
stone mountains, that you and I may walk past them 1 
They are put there just to prevent our walking past, 



u I 



92 Hereward 

unless we choose to have the garrison sallying out to 
attack our rear, and cut us off from home, and carry 
off our women intp the bargain, when our backs are 
turned" 

The English swore, and declared that they had never 
thought of that. 

" No. We drink too much ale on this side of the 
Channel, to think of that — or of anything beside." . 

"But," said Leofwrin Prat, "if we have no artillery, 
we can make some." 

"Spoken like yourself, good comrade. If we only 
knew how." 

" I know," said Torfrida. " I have read of such things 
in books of the ancients, and I have watched them 
making continually — I little knew why, or that I should 
ever turn engineer." 

"What is there that you do not know?" cried they all 
at once. And Torfrida actually showed herself a fair 
practical engineer. • 

But where was iron to come fromi Iron for cata- 
pult-springs, iron for ram-heads, iron for bolts and bars ? 

" Torfrida," said Hereward, " you are wise. Can you 
use the divining rod ? " 

"Why, my knight?" 

" Because there might be iron-ore in the wolds ; and 
if you could find it by the rod, we might get it up and 
smelt it" 



The Wake. 93 

Torfrida said humbly that she would try ; and walked 
with the divining-rod between her pretty fingers for many 
a mile in wood and wold, wherever the ground looked 
red and rusty. But she never found any iron. 

"We must take the tires off the cart-wheels," said 
Leofwin Prat 

" But how will the carts do without % For we shall 
want them if we march." 

"In Provence, where I was bom, the wheels were 
made out of one round piece of wood. Could we not 
cut wheels like them % " a^ed Torfrida. 

" You are the wise woman as usual," said Hereward. 

Torfrida burst into a violent flood of tears, no one 
knew why. 

There came over her a vision of the creaking carts, 
and the little sleek oxen, dove-coloured and dove-eyed, 
with their canvas mantles tied neatly on to keep off heat 
and flies, lounging on with their light load of vine and 
olive-twigs beneath the blazing southern sun. When 
should she see the sun once more % She looked up at 
the brown branches overhead, howling in the December 
gale, and down at the brown fen below, dying into mist 
and darkness as the low December sun died down ; and 
it seemed as if her life was dying down with it. There 
would be no more sun, and no more summers, for her 
upon this earth. 

None certainly for her poor old mother. Her southern 



94 Hereward 

blood was chflling more and more beneath the bitter sky 
of Kesteven. The fall of the leaf had brought with it 
rheumatism, ague, and many miseries. Cunning old 
leech-wives treated the French lady with tonics; mug- 
wort, and bogbean, and good wiiie enow. But, like 
David of old, she got no heat; and before Yule-tide 
came, she had prayed herself safety out of this world, and 
into the world to come. And Torfrida's heart was the 
more light when she saw her gol 

She was absorbed utterly in Hereward and his plots. 
She lived for nothing else, ha^ly even for her child ; 
and clung to her husband's fortunes all the morie fiercely, 
the more desperate they seemed. 

So that small band of gallant men laboured on, waiting 
for the Danes, and trying to make artillery and take 
Lincoln Keep. And all the while, so unequal is fortune 
when God wills — ^throughout the Southern Weald, from 
Hastings to Hind-head, every copse glared with charcoal 
heaps, every glen was burrowed with iron diggings, every 
hammer-pond stamped and gurgled night and day, smelt- 
ing and forging English iron, wherewith the Frenchmen 
might slay Englishmen. 

William — ^though perhaps he knew it not himself — 
had, in securing Sussex and Surrey, secured the then 
great ironfield of England, and an unlimited supply of 
weapons : and to that circumstance, it may be, as much 
as to any other, the success of his campaigns may be due. 



T7u Wake. 95 

It must have been in one of these December days 
that a handful of knights came through the Bruneswold, 
mud and blood-bespattered, iirging on tired horses, as^ 
men desperate and foredone. And the foremost of them 
all, when he saw Hereward at the gate of Bourne, leaped 
down, and threw his arms round his neck, and burst into 
bitter weeping. ^ 

"Hereward, I know you, though you know me not. 

I am your nephew, Morcar Algarsson ; and all is lost" 

• • • • * 

As the winter ran on, other fugitives came in, mostly 
of rank and family. At last Edwin lumself came, 
young and fair, like Morcar ; he who should have been 
the Conqueror's son-in-law; for whom his true-love 
pined, as he pined, in vain. Where were Sweyn and his- 
Danes % Whither should they go till he came % 

'* To Ely," answered Hereward. 

Whether or not it was his wit which first seized on the' 
military capabilities of Ely is not told. Leofric the 
deacon, who is likely to know best, says that there were 
men already there holding out against William ; and that 
they sent for Hereward. But it is not clear from his. 
words, whether they were fugitives, or merely bold 
Abbot Thurstan and his monks. 

It is but probable, nevertheless, that Hereward, as 
the only man among the fugitives who ever showed any 
ability whatsoever, and who was, also, the only leader 



96 Hereward 

(save Morcar) connected with the fen, conceived the 
famous ^' Camp of Refuge," and made it a formidable 
fact. Be that as it may, Edwin and Morcar went to 
Ely; and there joined an Earl Tosti (according to 
Richard of Ely), unknown to history; a Siward Bam, 
" the boy or the chieftain," who had been dispossessed 
of lands in Lincolnshire ;* and other valiant and noble 
gentlemen — the last wrecks of the English aristocracy. 
And there they sat in Abbot Thurstan's hall, and waited 
for Sweyn and the Danes. 

But the worst Job's messenger who, during that evil 
winter and spring, came into the fen, was Bishop Egelwin 
of Durham. He it was, most probably, who brought 
the news of Berkshire laid waste with fire and sword. 
He it was, most certainly, who brought the worse news 
still, that Gospatric and Waltheof were gone over to the 
king. He was at Durham seemingly, when he saw that ; 

♦ Ordericus Vitalis says that he and his brother Aldred were 
'*soDs of Ethelgar, the late king's grandson." In another place he 
makes Ethelgar a *' cousin of King Edward.'' Mr. Forester in his 
notes to Ordericus Vitalis says (with probability^ that the " late king " 
may have been Edward the Elder, who had a son named Ailward 
Snow, whose son Algar (Ethelgar) was probably the father of Siward 
Bam and Aldred, as well as of Brihtric, who had the largest pos- 
sessions in Gloucestershire, Herefordshire, and Shropshire. If so, 
we have a fresh illustration of the fact that the lands of England had, 
before the Conquest, been accumulated in the hands of an aristocracy 
numerically small, and closely interrelated in blood; a state of 
things sufficient in itself to account for the easy victory of the 
French. 



7fu Wake. 97 

and fled for his life, ere evil overtook him : for to yield 
to William that brave bishop had no mind. 

But when Hereward heard that Waltheof was married 
to the Conqueror's niece, he smote his hands together, 
and cursed him, and the mother who bore him to Siward 
the Stout 

^' Could thy father rise from the grave he would 
split thy craven head in the very lap of the French- 



woman." 



" A hard lap will he find it, Hereward," said Torfnda. 
"I know her — ^wanton, false, and vain. Heaven grant 
he do not rue the day he ever saw her J " 

" Heaven grant he may rue it ! Would that her 
bosom were knives and fish-hooks, like that of the 
statue in the fairy tale. See what he has done for us ! 
He is Earl, not only of his own lands, but of poor 
Morcar's too, and of half his earldom. He is Earl of 
Huntingdon, of Cambridge, they say— of this ground on 
which we stand. What right have I here now 1 How 
can I call on a single man to arm, as I could in Morcar's 
name f I am an outlaw here, and a robber ; and so is 
every man with me. And do you think that William 
did not know that) He saw well enough what he was 
doing when he set up that great brainless idol as earl 
again. He wanted to split up the Danish folk, and 
he has done it The Northumbrians will stick to Wal- 
theof. They think him a mighty hero, because he 

VOL. II. H 



9^ Hereward 

held York-gate alone with his own axe against all the 
French." 

" Well, that was a gallant deed. " 

'' Pish ! we are all gallant nien, we English. It is not 
courage that we want, it is brains. So the Yoikshire and 
Lindsey men, and the Nottingham men too, will go with 
Waltheo£ And round here, and all through the fens, 
every coward, every prudent man even — every man who 
likes to be within the law, and to feel his head safe on 
his shoulders — ^no blame to him — ^will draw off fix>ifa me 
for fear of this new earl, and leave us to end as a hand- 
ful of outlaws. I see it all And William sees it all. He 
is wise enough. The Mamzer, and so is his father Belial, 
to whom he will go home some day. Yes, Torfrida," he 
went on after a pause, more gently, but in a tone of 
exquisite sadness, ^'you axe nght, as you always are. 
I aih no match for that man. I see it now." 

" I never said that. Only ^*' 

'' Only you told me again suid again that he was the 
wisest man on earth." 

" And yet, for that very reason, I bade you win glory 
without end by defying the wisest man on earth." 

" And d6 you bid me do it still ? 

"God knows what I bid," said Torfnda, bursting 
into tears. " Let me go pray, for I never needed it 



more." 



Hereward watched her kneeling, as . he sat moody. 



Tke JVake. ^ 

all but desperate. Then he glided to her side and said 
gently: 

"Teach me how to pray, Torfrida. I can say a pater 
or an ave. But that does not comfort a man's heart, as 
& as I could ever find. Teach me' to pray, as you and 
my mother pray." 

And she pat her arms round the wild man's neck, and 
tried to teach him, like a litde child. 



- v 

H 2 



loo Hereward 



CHAPTER VII. 

HOW HEREWARD FULFILLED HIS WORDS TO THE PRIOR 

OF THE GOLDEN BOROUGH. 

In the course of that winter died good Abbot Brand. 
Hereward went over to see him, and found him moaning 
to himself texts of Isaiah, and confessing the sins of his 
people. 

<< Woe to the vineyard that bringeth forth wild grapes. 
Woe to those that join house to house and field to field, 
— ^like us, and the Godwinssons, and every man that 
could — ^till we stood alone in the land. Many houses, 
great and fidr, shall be without inhabitants. It is all 
foretold in Holy Writ, Hereward, my son. Woe to those 
who rise early to fill themselves with strong drink, and 
the tabret and harp are in their feasts : but they regard 
not the works of the Lord. Therefore my people are 
gone into captivity, because they have no knowledge. 
Ah — ^those Frenchmen have knowledge, and too much of 
it : while^we have brains filled with ale instead of justice. 
Therefore hell hath enlarged herself, and opened her 
mouth without] measure,-! — ^and all go down into it. 



27u Wake. .xox 

one by one. And dost thou think thou shalt escape, 
Hereward, thou, stout-hearted 9" 

''I neither know nor care: but this I know, that 
whithersoever I go, I shall go sword in hand/' 

^' They that take the sword shall perish by the 
sword," said Brand, and blessed Hereward and died. 

A week after came news that Thorold of Malmesbury 
was coming to take the abbey of Peterborough, and had 
got as far as Stamford, with a right royal train. 

Then Hereward sent Abbot Thorold word, that if 
he or his Frenchmen put foot into Peterborough, he 
Hereward would bum it over their heads. And that if 
he rode a mile beyond Stamford town, he should walk 
back into it barefoot in his shirt 

Whereon Thorold abode at Stamford, and kept op 
his spirits by singing the song of Roland, which some 
say he himself composed. 

A week after that, and the Danes were come. 

A mighty fleet, with Sweyn Ul£&on at their head, went 
up the Ouse towards Ely. Another, with Asbiom at 
their head, having joined them off the mouth of the 
Humber, sailed (it seems) up the Nene. All the 
chivalry of Denmark and Ireland was come ; and with 
it all die chivafay, and the unchivalry, of the Baltic shores. 
.^Vikings from Jomsburg and Arkona, Gottlanders from 
Wisby ; and with them their headien tributaries, Wends, 
Finns, Esthonians, Courlanders, Russians from Novo- 



iZ09 . Heremdrd 

,gorod and the heart' of Hohnigard, Letts who still pBered,. 
in the forest of Rugeii, human victims to the four- 
Jheaded Swantowit.; Foul hordes in sheepskins and 
primaeval filth,' who might have' been scented itoxxa 
Jlunsfantoh Ness ever since^thdr ships had rounded the 
Skaw. . ' 

' Hereward hurried to them with: all his men. He* was 
anxiouSy of course, to prevent their plundering the lands* 
folk as they went — and ^t the saivag^ from the Baltic 
shore ^ould 'certainly do, if they could, however 
jeasonable the. Danes, Orkneymen, and Irish Ostmeh 
inightbe.'. 

/ JV>6d, of coiirse, they niust take where they could find 
it; but outrages were. not a necessary, though a too 
(Common, Jadjunct to the process jof empfylng a farmer's 
■granaries. 

He found the Danes in a dangerous mood \ siilky and 
disgusted, as they had good right to be. They had gone 
jbo. the Humber,.and found nothing but ruin; the Jand 
^waste ; the Frendi hdding l)oAi the shores of: the 
tHumber; and Asbiom' cowering in' Humber-mduth, 
Mrdly able to feed his men. They had com^ to con- 
ifer England, and nothing was left for them to conqiier, 
.but a few peat-bogs. Then Aey would have whit lEhene 
rwas in them. ISvezy otoe knew that gold grew tip in 
^nglan4 dut: of . the g^und,- wherever, a monk, put ihis 
-foot. And they would, plunder Crowland*. The^r fore- 



Tike Wake. loj 

&thers had done it, and had fared none the worse* 
JEnglish gold they would have, if they could not get fat 
English manors. 

" No ! not Crowland ! " said Hereward. Any place 
but Crowlandy endowed and honoured by Canute the 
Great, — Crowland, whose abbot was a Danish noble-* 
man, whose monks were Danes to a man, of their own 
flesh and blood. Canute's soul would rise up in Yal* 
haUa and curse them, if they took the value of a penny 
from St Guthlac. St. Guthlac was their good friend. 
lie would send them bread, meat, ale, all they needed* 
but woe to the man who set foot upon his ground. 

Hereward sent off messengers to Crowland, warning 
all to. be ready to escape into the fens ; and entreating 
Ulfketyl to empty his storehouses into his barges^ suid 
send food to the Danes, ere a day was past. And IJlf* 
ketyl worked hard and well, till a string of baiges wound 
its way through the fens, laden with beeves and bread, 
and ale*barrels in plenty ; and with monks too, who 
welcomed the Danes as their brethren, talked to them in 
tfaeir own tongue, blessed tiiem in St. Guthlac's name as 
the saviours of England ; and then went home again, 
chanting so sweetly their thanks to Heaven iot their 
safety, that the wild Vikings were awed, and agreed that 
St. Guthlac's men were wise folk and open-hearted> and 
that it was a shame to do them harm. 

Biit plunder they must have. 



I04 Hereward 

" And plunder you shall have ! " said Hereward as a 
sudden thought struck him. "I will show you the way 
to the Golden Borough — the richest minster in England ; 
and all the treasures of the Golden Borough shall be 
yours, if you will treat Englishmen as friends, and spare 
. the people of the Fens." 
. It was a great crime in the eyes of men of that time. 
A great crime, taken simply, in Hereward's own eyes. 
But necessity has no law. Something the Danes must 
have, and ought, to have ; and St Peter's gold was better 
in their purses, than in that of Thorold and his French 
monks. 

So he led them up the fens and rivers, till they came 
into the old Nene, which men call Catwater and ]^uscal 
now. 

As he passed Nomanslandhime, and the mouth of the 
Porsand river, he trembled, and trusted that the Danes 
did not know that they were within three miles of St. 
Guthlac's sanctuary. But they went on ignorant, and 
up the Muscal till they saw St. Peter's towers on the 
wooded rise, and behind them the great forest which 
is now Milton Park. 

There were two parties in Peterborough minster; a 
smaller faction of stout-hearted English ; a laxger one 
which favoured William and the French customs, with 
Prior Herluin at their head. Herluin wanted not for 
foresight, and he knew that evil was coming on him. 



7%e Wake. 105 

He knew that the Danes were in the fen. He knew 
that Hereward was with them. He knew that they had 
come to Crowland. Hereward could never mean to let 
them sack it Peterborough must be their point And 
Herluin set his teeth, like a bold man determined to 
abide the worst, and barred and barricaded every gate 
and door. 

That night a hapless diurchwarden — ^Ywar was his 
name — ^might have been seen galloping through Milton 
and Castor Hanglands, and on by Bamack quarries over 
Southorpe heath, with saddlebags of huge size stuffed 
with '^ gospels, mass-robes, cassocks, and other garments, 
and such other small things as he could carry away." 
And he came before day to Stamford, where Abbot 
,Thor61d lay at his ease in his inn with his hommes 
d'armes asleep in the hall. 

. And the churchwarden knocked them up, and drew 
Abbot Thorold's curtains with a &ce such as his who 

" drew Priam's curtain in the dead of nighty 
And would have told him, half his Troy was bomed ;" 

and told Abbot Thorold that the monks of Peterborough 
had sent him ; and that unless he saddled and rode 
his best that night, with his meime of men-at-arms, his 
Golden Bonwgh would be even as Troy town by mom- 
mg light 
'^A moi hommes d'armes!" shouted Thorold, as 



io6 Herewafd 

h^ Us^d to. shout wheii^ver he wanted to scouige his 
wretched English monks at Mahnesbiiiy into some 
^French fashion. 

The men leaped up and poured in, growling. 

^^ Take me this monk, and kick him into the street for 
.waking me with such news." 

^'But, gracious lord, the heathen will surely bum 
Peterborough; and folks said that you were a mighty 
man of war." 

" So I am ; but if I were Roland, Oliver, and Turpin 
Tolled into one, how am I to fight Hereward and the 
Danes with forty men-at-arms f Answer me that, thou 
dunder-headed English porker." 

So Ywar was kicked into the cold, while Thorold 
raged up and down his chamber in niantie and slippers, 
wringing his hands over the . treasure of the Golden 
Borough^ snatched firom his fingers just as he was closing 
them upon it 

That night the monks of Peterborough, prayed in the 

» 

minster till the long hours passed into the short. The 
corrodiers, and servants of the monastery, fled *firom the 
town outside into the Milton woods. Hie monks prayed 
0n inside till an hour after matins. When the first flush 
of the summer's dawn began ta show in the nofti^ 
•eastern, sky, ^ they heard mingling with their own chant, 
another chant, which Peterborough had not heard since 
it ifas Medehampstead, three hundred years ago;— the 



3JU Wake. 107 

terrible Yuch-hey-saa-saa — ^the war-song of the Vikings 
<^ the north. 

Their chant stopped of itself. With blandied feces 
and trembling knees, they fled, regardless of all disci- 
pline, up into the minster tower; and from the leads 
looked out north-eastward on the fen. 

The first rays of the summer sun* were just streaming 
over the vast sheet of emerald, and glittering upon the 
^ding river ; and on a winding line, too, seemingly 
endless, of scarlet coats and shields, black hulls, gilded 
poops and vanes and beak-heads, and the flash and foam 
of.innumerable oars. 

. And nearer and louder came the oar-roll, like thunder 
working up from the east; and mingled with it, that 
grim yet laughing Heysaa, which bespoke in its very 
note the revelry of slaughter. 

The ships had all their sails on deck. But as they 
came nearer, the monks could see the banners of the 
two foremost vessels. 

The one was the red and white of the terrible Danne- 
iMrog. The other, the scarcely less terrible Wake-knot 
of Hereward. 

<* He will bum the minster ! He has vowed to do it 
Ais a child hie vowed, and he must do it. In this very 

♦ ** This befel on the fourth day of the Nones of June," So says 
the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle ; from which the details of the sac^ are^ 
taken. 



io8 Hereward 

minster the fiend entered into him and possessed him; 
and to this minster has the fiend brought him back to 
do his will. Satan, my brethren, having a special spite 
(as must neejds be) against St Peter, rock and pillar of 
the Holy Church, chose out and inspired this man, even 
from his mother's womb, that he might be the foe and 
robber of St. Peter, and the hater of all who, like my 
humility, honour him, and strive to bring this English 
land into due obedience to that blessed Apostle. Bring 
forth the relics, my brethren. Bring forth, above all things, 
those filings of St. Peter's own chains, the special glory 
of our monastery — and perhaps its safeguard this day.** 

Some such bombast would any monk of those days 
have talked in like case. And yet, so strange a thing is 
man, he might have been withal, like Herluin, a shrewd 
and valiant man. 

They brought out all the relics. They brought out the 
filings themselves, in a box of gold. They held them 
out over the walls at the ships, and called on all the 
saints to whom they belonged. But they stopped that 
line of scarlet, black, and gold, as much as their spiritual 
descendants stop the lava-stream of Vesuvius, when they 
hold out similar matters at them, with a hope unchai^^ed 
by the experience of eight hundred years. The Heysaa 
rose louder and nearer. The Danes were coming. And 
they came. 

And all the while a thousand skylarks rose firom off the 



7^ Waike, X09 

fen, and chanted their own chant aloft, as if appealing to 
heaven against that which man's greed, and man's rage, 
and man's superstition, had made of this fair earth of God. 

The relics had been brought out : but, as they would 
ndt woiic, the only thing to be done was to put them 
back again and hide them safe, lest they should l)6w 
down like Bel and stoop like Nebo, and be carried, like 
them, into captivity themselves, being worth a Very large 
sum of money in the eyes of the more Christian part of 
the Danish host 

Then to hide the treasures as well as they could ; 
which (says the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle) they hid some- 
where in the steeple. 

The Danes were landing now. The shout which they 
gave as they leaped on shore made the hearts of the poor 
monks sink low. Would they be murdered, as well as 
robbed I Perhaps not — ^probably not Hereward would 
see to that. And some wanted to capitulate. 

Herluin would hot hear of it They were safe 
enough. St Peter's- relics might not have worked a 
miracle on the spot : but they must have done something. 
St Peter had been appealed to on his honour, and on his 
honour he must surely take the matter up. At all 
events, the walls and gates were strong, and the Danes 
had no anillexy. Let them howl and rage round the 
hcdy place, till Abbot Thorold and the Frenchmen of the 
country rose and drove them to their ships. 



c lo Hertwafi 

•In tiiat last thought the cunning Frenchman was not 
so far wrong. The Danes pushed up through the little 
town, and to the minster gatefs : but entrance was im* 
possible ; and they prowled round and routid like raging 
wolves about a winter steading : but found no crack of 
entry. 

Prior Herluin grew bold ; and coming to the leads of the 
gateway tOwer, looked over cautiously, and holding up a 
tertain most sacred emblem — not to bfc profaned in these 
pages — cursed them in the name of his whole Pantheon. 

"Aha, Herluin 1 Are you there?" asked a short 
square man in gay armour. "Have you forgotten the 
peatstack outside BoUdyke Gate, and how you bade light 
it under me thirty years since 1 " 

" Thou art Winter 1" and the Prior uttered what would 
be considered fronj any but a churchman's lips a blas- 
phemous and bloodthirsty curse. 

" Aha 1 That goes like rain off a duck's back to one 
who has been a minster scholar in his time. You ! 
Danes 1 Ostmen ! down ! If you shoot at that man, I'll 
<:ut your heads off. He is the oldest foe I have in the 
world, and the oiily one who ever hit me without nay 
hitting him again ; and nobody shall touch him but me« 
So down bows, I say." 

The Danes — ^humorous all of them— saw that there 
was a jest toward, and perhaps some earnest too, and 
joined in jeering the Prior. 



The Wake. rii 

Heduiii had ducked his head behind the parapet ; not 
fiom cowardice^ but simply because he had on no mail; 
and might be shot any moment. But when he heard 
Winter forbid them to touch him, he lifted up his heiid, 
and gave his old pupil as good as he brought 

With his sharp swift French priest's tongue he 
sneered, he jeered, he scolded, he argued; and then 
threatened. Suddenly changing his tone, in words of real 
eloquence he appealed to the superstitions of his hearers. 
He threatened them with supernatural vengeance. He 
set before them all the terrors of the unseen world. 

Some of them began to slink away frightened. St 
Peter was an ill man to have a blood feud with. 

Winter stood, laughing and jeering in return, for full 
ten minutes. At last — " I asked, and you have not an- 
swered: have you forgotten the old peatstack outside 
BoUdyke Gate 1 For if you have, The Wake has not. 
He has piled it against the gate, and it should be biunt 
through by this time. Go and see." 

Herluin disappeared with a curse. 

"Now, you seacocks," said Winter, springing up. 
" We'll to the BoUdyke Gate, and aU start fair." 

The BoUdyke Gate was on fire; and more, so were 
the suburbs. There was no time to save them, as Here- 
ward would gladly have done, for the sake of the corro- 
diers. They must go : — on to the BoUdyke Gate. Who 
cared to put out flames behind him, with aU the treasures 



112 Htreward 

oi Golden Boroii£^ before hiin 1 In a few minutes all 
the town was ali^t In a few minutes more, the 
monastery likewise. 

A fire is detestable enough at all times, but most de- 
testable by day. At night it is customary; a work of 
darkness which lights up the dark ; picturesque, magnifi- 
cent, with a fitness Tartarean and diabolic But under 
a glaring sun, amid green fields and blue skies, all its 
wickedness is revealed without its beauty. You see its 
works, and little more. The flame is hardly noticed. 
All that is seen is a canker eating up God's works,' 
breaking the bones of its prey with a horrible cracking 
uglier than all stage-scene glares, cruelly and shame- 
lessly under the very eye of the great, honest, kindly 
sun. 

And that felt Hereward, as he saw Peterborough bum. 
He could not put his thoughts into words, as men of this 
day can : so much the better for him, perhaps. But he 
felt all the more intensely — ^as did men of his day — ^the 
things he could not speak. All he said was, aside to 
Winter — 

'' It is a dark job. I wish it had been done in the 
dark.** And Winter knew what he meant 

Then the men rushed into the BoUdyke Gate, while 
Hereward and Winter stood and looked with their men, 
whom they kept close together, waiting their commands. 
The Danes and their allies cared not for the great 



The Wake. jij 

glowing heap of peat They cared not for each other, 
hardly for themselves. They rushed into the gap ; they 
thrust the glowing heap inward through the gateway with 
their lances ; they thrust each other down into it, jmd 
trampled over them to fall themselves, rising scorched and 
withered, and yet struggling on toward the gold of the 
Golden Borough. One savage Lett caught another roimd 
the waist, and hurled him bodily into the fire, crying in 
his wild tongue — 

" You will make a good stepping-stone for me." 
" That is not fair," quoth Hereward, and clove him to 
the chine. 

It was wild work. But the Golden Borough was won. 
**We must in now and save the monks," said Here- 
ward, and dashed over the embers. 

He was only just in time. In the midst of the great 
court were all the monks, huddled together like a flock of 
sheep, some kneeling, most weeping bitterly, after the 
fashion of monks. 

Only Herluin stood in front of them, at bay, a lofty 

crucifix in his hand. He had no mind to weep. But 

with a face of calm and bitter wrath, he preferred words 

of peace and entreaty. They were what the time 

needed. Therefore they should be given. To-morrow he 

would write to Bishop Egelsin, to excommunicate with 

bell, book, and candle, to the lowest pit of Tartarus, all 

who had done the deed. 

VOL. II. I 



^14 .Herew^rd 

,' But to-day "he spoke them fair; However, his. fair 
speeches profited little, not being understood by a horde 
of Letts and Finiis, who howled and bayed at him, and 
tried to tear the cirucifix from his hands : but feared " The 
white Christ." * 

They were' already gaining courage from their own 
yells j in a moment more blood would have been shed, 
and then a general massacre must have ensued. 

Hereward saw it, and shouting " After me, Hereward's 
men ! A Wake ! A Wake ! " swung Letts and Finns right 
and left like comsheaves, and stood face to face with 
Herluin. 

An angry savage smote him on the hind head full with 
a stone axe. He staggered, and then looked round and 
laughed. 

"Fool! hast thou not heard that Hereward's armour 
was forged by dwarfs in the mountain-bowels ? Off, and 
hunt for gold, or it will be all gone." 

The Finn, who was astonished at getting no more from 
his blow than a few sparks, and e3q>ected instant death in 
return, took die hint and vanished jabbering, as did his 
fellows. 

" Now, Herluin the Frenchman ! " said Hereward. 

" Now, Hereward the robber of saints ! " said 
Herluin. 

It was a fine sight. The soldier and the churchman^ 
the Englishman and the Frenchman, the man of the then 



The Wake. 115 

wodd, and the man of the then Church, pitted fairly, face 
tbfece.. 

Hereward tried for one moment to stare down 
Herlttih. _ But those terrible eye-glances, before which 
Vikings had quailed, turned off hannless from the more 
tenible glance of the man who believed himself backed 
by the Maker of the universe, and all the hierarchy of 
heaven. 

A sharp, unlovely face it was ; .though, like many 
a great churchman's face of those days, it was neither 
thin nor hazard : but rather round, sleek, of a puffy and 
unwholesome paleness. But there was a thin lip above 
abroad square jaw, which showed that Herluin wa^ 
neither fool nor coward. 

'' A robber and a child of Belial thou hast been from 
thy cradle ; and a robber and a child of Belial thou art 
now. Dare thy last iniquity. Slay the servants of St. 
Peter on St. Peter's altar, with thy worthy comrades, the 
heathen Saracens,* and set up Mahound with them in 
the h<^y place." 

Hereward laughed so jolly a laugh, that the prior was 
taken aback. 

" Slay St Peter's monks 1 Not even his rats ! I am a 
monk's knight, as my knot testifies. There shall not a 

* The Danes were continually mistaken by Mediaeval churchmen for 
Saracens, and the Saracens considered to be idolaters. A maumee^ 
or idolj means a Mahomet 

I 2 



ii6 Hereward 

hair of your head be touched. Only, I must clear out all 
Frenchmen hence ; and all Englishmen likewise, as storks 
have chosen to pack with the cranes. Here, Hereward's 
men ! march.these traitors and their French prior safe 
out of the walls, and into Milton Woods, to look after 
their poor corrodiers.** 

'' Out of this place I stir not Here I am ^ and here I 
will live or die, as St Peter shall send aid." 

But as he spoke, he was precipitated rudely forward, 
and hurried almost into Hereward's arms. The whole 
body of monks, when they heard Hereward*s words, 
cared to hear no more : but, desperate between fear and 
joy, rushed forward, bearing away their prior in the 
midst 

" So go the rats out of Peterborough, and so is my 
dream fulfilled. Now for the treasure, and then to Ely." 

But Herluin burst himself clear of the frantic mob of 
monks, and turned back on Hereward. 

" Thou wast dubbed knight in that church ! " 

^' I know it, man, and that church and the relics of the 
saints in it are safe therefore. Hereward gives his word." 

" That — ^but not that only, if thou art a true knight, as 
thou boldest. Englishman." 

Hereward growled savagely, and made an ugly step 
toward Herluin. That was a point which he would not 
have questioned. 

" Then behave as a knight, and save, save," — ^as the 



The Wake. 117 

monks dragged him away, — " save the hospice ! There 
are women— ladies there!'* shouted he, as he was 
borne off. 

lliey never met again on earth : but both comforted 
themselves in after years, that two old enemies' last deed 
in common had been one of mercy. 

Hereward uttered a cry of horror. If the wild Letts, 
even the Jomsburgers, had got in, all was lost. He 
ru^ed to the door. It was not yet burst : but a bench, 
swung by strong arms, was battering it in fast. 

" Winter ! Geri ! Siwards ! To me, Hereward's men ! 
Stand back, fellows. Here are friends here inside. If 
you do not, 111 cut you down." 

But in vain. The door was burst, and in poured the 
savage mob. Hereward, unable to stop them, headed 
them, or pretended to do so, with five or six of his own 
men round him, and went into the haU. 

On the rushes lay some half-dozen grooms. They 
were butchered instantly, ^mply because they were 
there. Hereward saw : but could not prevent. He ran 
as hard as he could to the foot of the wooden stair which 
led to the upper floor. 

" Guard the stair-foot, Winter ! " and he ran up. 

Two women cowered upon the floor, shrieking and 
praying with hands clasped over their heads. He saw 
that the aims of one of them were of the most delicate 
whiteness, and judging her to be the lady, bent over' 



1 1 8' Hereward 

her. " Lady ! you are safe. I will protect you. I am 
Hereward." 

She sprang up, and threw herself with a scream into 
his an^s. 
' " Hereward ! Hereward ! Save me. I am^ -^ 

*' Alftruda ! '* said Hereward. 

It was Alftruda ; if possible more beautiful than ever. 

" I have got you ! " she cried. " I am safe now. 
Take me away— Oiit of this horrible place-^Take me 
into the woods — ^Anywhere — Only do not let me be 
burnt here — stifled like a rat Give me air I Give rile 
water !" And she climg to him so madly, that Hereward, 
as he held her in his arms, and gazed on her extra-; 
ordinary beauty, forgot Torfrida for the second time. 

But there was no time to indulge in evil thoughts, 
even had any crossed his mind. He caught her in his 
arms, and commanding the maid to follow, hurried down 
the stair. 

Winter and the Siwards were defending the foot with 
swinging blades. The savages were howling round like 
ciirs about a bull ; and when Hereward appeared above 
with the women, there was a loud yell of rage and enVy. 

He should not havie the woinen to himself— They 
would share the plunder equally— was shouted in half-a* 
dozen barbarous dialects. 

^'Have you left any valuables in the diamberl" 
whispered he to Alftruda. 



Tk€ Waki, X19 

•**Yes, jewels — robes — ^Let them have all, only save, 
ane ! " .- . .. 

"Let me pass!*' roared Hereward. "There is rich 
l>ooty in the room above, and you. may have .it as these 
ladies' ratnsom. Them you do not touch.. Badc^ I say, 
let me {^assT* 

And he rushed forward. Winter and the lipusecarles 
formed round him and the women, and hurried dawn 
the hall; .while the savages hurried up the gladder, to 
quarrel over their spoil. . : , 
. Th<iy were, out in^tKe court-yard, and safe for the 
moment But whither should he take her) 
. "To Earl Asbiom," said one of the Siwards* But how 
to find him % ... . 

" There is Bishop Christiem !" . And the bishop was 
caught and stopped. ^ 

" This is an evil day's work, Sir Hereward." . 

"Then help to mend it by taking caxe of these ladies, 
like a .man of God." t And' he explained the case* . . . 

" You may come safely with me, my poor lambs,", said 
the Bishop. " I am glad to find something to do iit for 
a churchman. To me, my housecarles." 
' Burthey were.aU oflf.plundering. ., . 

" We will Stand by you. and the ladies, and see ym 
safe down to the ships," said Winter, and so they 
went oflf, • ) f . . ,....,« 

Hereward would gladly have gone with them, id^ 



I20 Hereward 

Alftruda piteously entreated him. But he heard his 
name called on every side in angiy tones. 

« Who wants Hereward % *' 

" Earl Asbiom — Here he is." 

''Those scoundrel monks have hidden all the altar 
furniture. If you wish to save them from being tortured 
to death, you had best find it." 

Hereward ran with him into the Cathedral. It was a 
hideous sight ; torn books and vestments ; broken taber- 
nacle-work ; foul savages swarming in and out of every 
dark aisle and cloister, like wolves in search of prey ; 
five or six ruffians aloft upon the rood-screen; one 
tearing the golden crown from the head of the Crucifix, 
another the golden footstool from its feet* 

As Hereward came up, crucifix and man fell together, 
crashing upon the pavement, amid shouts of brutal 
laughter. 

He hurried past them, shuddering, into the choir. The 
altar was bare ; the golden pallium which covered it, 
gone^ 

'' It may be in the crypt below. I suppose the monks 
keep their relics there," said Osbiom. 

" No ! Not there. Do not touch the reliqs ! Would 
you have the curse of all the saints 1 Stay 1 I know an 



* The crucifix was probably of the Greek 'pattern, in which Uie 
figure stood upon a flat slab, projecting tcom die cross. 



The Wake. xar 

old hiding place. It may be there. Up into the steeple 
with me." 

And in a chamber in the steeple they found the 
golden pall, and treasures countless and wonderM. 

" We had better keep the knowledge of this to oiir- 
selves awhile/' said Earl Asbiom, looking with greedy 
eyes on a heap of wealth such as he had never beheld 
before. 

" Not we I Hereward is a man of his word, and we 
will share and share alike.'* 

"What will you?" And Asbiom caught him by the 
arm. "This treasure belongs of right to Sweyn the 
king." 

" It belongs to St Peter, who must lend it to-day to 
save the poor fenmen from robbers and ravishers; and 
not to any king on earth. Take off thine hand, Jarl, if 
thou wouldst keep it safe on thy body." 

Asbiom drew back, gnashing his teeth with rage. To 
strike Hereward, was more than he, or any Berserker in 
his host, dared do : and beside, he felt that Hereward's 
words were just. 

" Hither I " shouted Hereward down the stair. " Up 
hither, Vikings, Berseikers, and seacocks all! Here, 
Jutlanders, Jomsbuigers, Letts, Finns, witches' sons and 
devils* sons all ! Here is gold, here is the dwarfs work, 
here is the dragon's hoard! Come up and take your 
Polotaswarf 1 You would not get a richer oiit of the 






Kaiser^s treasuiy. Hqre, wolves and ravens, eat gold, 
drink gold, roll in gold, and know that Hereward is ;a 
man of his word, and pays his soldiers' wagQ$ rpyaUy/* 

They rushed up the narrow stair, trampling each, oljier 
to death, and thrust Hereward and the Earl, choking, 
into a corner. The room was so full for a few m(»nent%. 
that some ^ied in it. Hereward and Asbiorn, protected, 
iby their strong armour, forced their way to the narrow 
window, and breathed through it, looking out upon the 
sea of flame below, 

" I am sorry for you, Jarl," said Hereward. " Bujt for 
-the poor Englishman's sake, so if must be," : 

" King Sweyn shall judge of that. Why dost hold my 
wrist, man f"' 

" Daggers are apt to get loose in such a press as 
tJUs." , 

"Always The Wake," said Asbiorn, with a forced; 
laugh. 

"Always The Wake. And as thou saidst. King Sweyn 
the just shall judge between us," ; : 

Jarl Asbiorn swung from him, and into the now thin-; 
ning press. Soon only a few remained, toseardi, by tiiie 
^lare of the flames, for what their fellows tni|^t havef 
<jverlooked^ . ,. : 

. "Now the play is playied put," saa^ Herewafd, **w/e; 
may as well go down, and to our shipi?." . , 

Some dirunken rufiians would haye. burnt the churcfar 



The Wake. 133* 

for mere mischief. But Asbiom, as well as Hereward, 
stopped Aat And gtadttally they got the men down to 
the ships ; some drunk^ some struggling under plunder ; 
some cursing and quarrelling because nothing had 
&llen to their lot It was a hideous scene : but one to 
which Hereward, as well as Asbiom, was too well 
accustomed to see aught in it save an hour's inevitable 
trouble in getting the men on board. 

The monks had all fled. Only Leofwin the Long was- 
lefty and he lay sick in the infirmary. Whether he was 
burned therein, or saved by Hereward's men, is not told. 

And' so was the Golden Borough sacked and burnt. 
Now then, whither % ' 

The Danes were to go to Ely, and join the army there* 
Hereward would march on to Stamford; secure the 
town if he could ; then to Huntingdon, to secure it like* 
wise ; and on to Ely afterwards. 

/'You will hot leave me among these savages!" said 
Alftruda. 

** Heaven forbid ! You shall come with me as far 'as 
Stamford, and then I will set you on. your way/' - 

' **My wayl" said Alftruda, in a bitter and hc^less 
tone. 

Hereward mounted her on a good horse, and rode 
beside 'her, looking — and he well knew it — a very perfect 
knight Soon they began to tsdk. What had brought* 
Alftruda to Peterborough, of all places on earth? 



J 24 Hereward 

** A woman's fortune. Because I am rich — and some 
say fair — I am a puppet, a slave, a prey. I was going 
back to my — ^to Dolfin." 

" Have you been away from him, then ? " 

" What I Do you not know 1 " 

" How should I know, lady 1 " 

" Yes, most true. How should Hereward know any- 
thmg about Alftruda ? But I will tell you. Maybe you 
may not care to hear ?" 

''About youl Anything. I have often longed to 
know how — ^what you were doing.*' 

'' Is it possible I Is there one human being left on 
earth who cares to hear about Alftruda f Then listen. 
You know that when Gospatric fled to Scotland his sons 
went with him — ^young Gospatric, Waltheof,* and he — 
Dolfin. Ethelreda, his girl, went too— and she is to 
marry, they say, Duncan, Malcolm's eldest son by 
Ingebiorg. So Gospatric will find himself, some day, 
£either-in-law of Ae King of Scots." 

** 1 wUl warrant him to find his nest well lined, where- 
ever he be. But of yourself?" 

** 1 refused to go. I could not face again that bleak 

• 

* This Waltheof Gospatricsson must not be confounded with 
Waltheof Siwaidsaon, the young EarL He became a wild border 
chieftain, then Baron of Atterdale, and then gave Atterdale to his 
^ter, Queen Ethelreda, and turned monk, and at last Abbot, of 
Ctowland ; crawling home, poor fdlow, like many another, to die 
in peace in the sanctoaiy of the Danes. 



77ie Wake. 125 

blaek North. Beside — ^but that is no concern of 
Hereward's "* 

Hereward was on the point of saying, ^^ Can anything 
concern you, and not be interesting to me 9*' 

But she went on : 

" I refused, and ^ 

" And he misused you I " asked he fiercely. 

" Better if he had. Better if he had tied me to his 
stirrup, and scourged me along into Scotland, than have 
left me' to new dangers, and to old temptations." 

" What temptations 1 " 

Alftruda did not answer : but went on — 

" He told me in his lofty Scots* fashion, that I was 
free to do what I list. That he had long since seen that 
I cared not for him ; and that he would find many a 
fairer lady in his own land." 

" There he lied. So you did not care for him ? He 
is a noble knight" 

" What is that to me ] Women's hearts are not to be 
bought and sold with their bodies, as I was sold. Care 
for him 1 I care for no creature upon earth. Once I 
cared for Hereward, like a silly child. Now I care not 
even for him." 

Hereward was sorry to hear that. Men are vainer 
than women ; just as peacocks are vainer than peahens ; 
and Hereward was — alas for him ! — a specially vain man. 
Of course, for him to fall in love with Alftruda, would 



126 Hitretvard 

*. .... 

have been a duundiil sin : he would not have committed 
it for all the treasures of Constantinople: but it was a 
not unpleasant thought that Alftruda should fall in love 
with him. ftit he only said* tenderly and courteously— r 

" Alas ! poor lady !" 

•* Poor lady. Too true, that Ikst For whither am I 
going now % Back to that man once more.'* 

"ToDOlfinI" 

" To my master, like a runaway slave. I went down 
SdUth to Queen Matilda. I knew her well, and she was 
kind to me, as she is to all things that breathe. But 
now that Gospatric is come into the king's grace again, 
and ha3 bought the earldom of Northumbrian from 
TeestoTyne "" 

« Bought the earldom r' 

" That has he ; -and paid for it right heavily. "^ 

" Traitor and fool ! He will not keep it seven years. 
The Frenchman will pick a quarrel with him, and cheat 
him out of earldom and money too." 

The which William did, within three years. 

^^ May it be so ! But when he came into the King's 
grace, he must needs demand me back in his son's 
name." 

" What does Dolfin want with you ? " 

" His father waints my money ; and stipulated for it 
with the King. And besides, I suppose I am a pretty 
plaything enough stilL" 



^^Ike Wake, xay 

"Ydul Yoti aie divine,, perfect Solfin is right. 
How could a man who had once enjoyed you, live 
without your* 

Alftruda laughed, a laugh full of meaning : but what 
that meaning was Herewafd could not divine. 

" So now," she said, " what Hereward has to do, as a 
true and courteous knight, is to give Alftnida safe con* 
duct, and, if he can, a guard j and to delivesr her up 
loyally aiid knightly to his old friend and fellow^warrior, 
Dolfin Gospatricsson, Earl of whatever he can lay hold 
of for the current month." 

" Are you in earnest ? " 

Alftruda laughed one of her strange laughs, looking 
straight before her. Indeed she had never looked Here* 
ward in the face during the whole ride. 

" What are those open holes 1 Graves 1 " 

"They are Bamack stone quarries, which Waltheof 
the Wittol has just given away to Crowland. Better 
•that, though, than keep them for his new French cousins 
to build castles withal." 

" So 1 That is pity* I thought they had been graves f 
and then you might have covered me up in one of them, 
and left me to sleep m peace." 

" What can I do for you, -Alftruda, my old playfellow, 
'Alfthida, whom I saved from the bfearl" 

"If Alftruda had foreseen the second monster into 
whose jaws she was to fall, she would have prayed you to 



128 . Stfcword 

hold tiiat terrible hand of yoms, which never since, men 
say, has struck without victory and renown. You won 
your first honour for my sake. But who am I now, 
that you should turn out of your glorious pa& for me ?* 

^' I will do anjTthing — ^anything. But why miscall this 
noble prince a monster I " 

^^If he were i^er than St. John, more wise than 
Solomon, and more valiant than King William, he is to 
me a monster ; for I loathe him, and I know not why. 
But do your duty as a knight, sir. Convey the lawful 
wife to her lawful spouse.** 

"What cares an outlaw for law, in a land where 
law is dead and gone? I will do what I — ^what you 
like. Come with me to Torfiida at Bourne; and let 
me see the man who dares try to take you out of my 
hand." 

Alfhnda laughed agaiiL . 

" No, no. I should interrupt the doves in their nest. 
Beside, the billing and cooing might make me envious. 
And I, alas ! who carry misery with me round the land, 
might make your Torfiida jealous.'* 

Hereward was of the same opinion, and rode silent 
and thoughtful through the great woods which are now 
the noble park of Burghley. 

" I have found it ! " said he at last "Why not go to 
Gilbert of Ghent, at Lincoln 1 " 

" Gilbert 1 Why should he befiiend me % 



The Wake. 129 

"He will do that, or anything else, which is for his 
own profit." 

"Profit] All the world seems determined to make 
profit out of me. I presume you would, if I had come 
with you to Bourne." / 

" I do not doubt it. This is a very wild sea to swim 
in ; and a man must be forgiven if he catches at every 
bit of drift timber." 

" Selfishness, selfishness everywhere ; — ^and I suppose 

you expect to gain by sending me to Gilbert of Ghent 1 " 

" I shall gain nothing, Alftruda, save the thought that 

you are not so far fi'om me — ^from us — ^but that we can 

hear of you — send succour to you if you need." 

Alftruda was silent At last — 

" And you think that Gilbert would not be afiaid of 
angering the king?" 

" He would not anger the king. Gilbert's friendship 
is more important to William, at this moment, than that 
of a dozen Gospatricsu He holds Lincoln town, and 
with it the key of Waltheof 's earldom : and things may 
happen, Alfiruda — I tell you: but if you tell Gilbert, 
may Hereward's curse be on you ! " 

" Not that ! Any man's curse save yours ! " said she 
in so passionate a voice that a thrill of fire ran through 
Hereward. And he recollected her scoff at Bruges— 
." So he could not wait for me ? " And a storm of evil 
thoughts swept through him. "Would to heaven!" 

VOI- II. K 



130 Hereward 

said he to himself, crushing them gallantly doMm, '^ I had 
never thought of Lincoln. But there is no other plan." 

But he did not tell Alftruda as he had meant to do, 
that she might see him soon in Lincoln Castle as its 
conqueror and lord. He half hoped that when that day 
came, Alftruda might be somewhere else. 

" Gilbert can say," he went on, stead3ang himself again, 
*^ that you feared to go north on accoimt of the disturbed 
state of the country ; and that, as you had given your- 
self up to him of your own accord, he thought it wisest 
to detain you, as a hostage for Dolfin*s allegiance." 

" He shall say so. I will make him say so." 

"So be it Now, here we are at Stamford town; 
and I must to my trade. Do you like to see fighting, 
Alftruda — the man's game, the royal game, the only 
game worth a thought on earth) For you are like to 
see a little in the next ten minutes." 

" I should like to see you fight. They tell me none is 
so swifl and terrible in the battle as Hereward. How 
•can you be otherwise, who slew the bear — ^when we were 
two happy children together 1 But shall I be safe % " 

" Safe ? of course," said Hereward, who longed, pea- 
cock-like, to show off his prowess before a lady who 
was — ^there was no denying it — far more beautiful than 
«ven Torfrida. 

But he had no opportunity to show off that prowess. 
For, as he galloped in over Stamford Bridge, Abbot 



The Wake. 131 

Thorold galloped out at the opposite end of the town 
through Casterton, and up the Roman road to Grantham. 

After whom Hereward sent Alftruda (for he heard that 
Thorold was going to Gilbert at Lincoln) with a guard 
of knights ; bidding them do him no harm, but saying 
that Hereward knew him to be a preux chevalier and 
lover of fair ladies ; that he had sent him a right fair one 
to bear him company to Lincoln ; and hoped that he 
would sing to her on the way the song of Roland. 

And Alftruda, who knew Thorold, went willingly, 
since it could no better be. 

After which, according to Gaimar, Hereward tarried 
three days at Stamford, laying a heavy tribute on the 
burgesses for harbouring Thorold and his Normans ; and 
also surprised at a drinking bout a certain special enemy 
of his, and chased him from room to room sword in 
hand, till he took refuge shamefully in an outhouse, and 
begged his life. And when his knights came back from 
Grantham, he marched to Bourne. 

" The next night," says Richard of Ely, or it may be 
Leofric himself, " Hereward saw in his dreams a man 
standing by him of inestimable beauty, old of years, 
terrible of countenance, in all the raiment of his body 
more splendid than all things which he had ever seen, or 
conceived in his mind ; who threatened him with a great 
club which he carried in his hand, and with a fearful 
doom, that he should take back to his church all that 

K i 



13* Hereward 

had been carried off the night before, and have them 
restored utterly, each in its place, if he wished to provide 
for the salvation of his soul, and escape on the spot a 
pitiable death. But when awakened, he was seized with 
a divine terror, and restored in the same hour all that he 
took away, and so departed, going onward with all his 



men." 



So says the chronicler, wishing, as may be well be- 
lieved, to advance the glory of St Peter, and to purge his 
hero's name from the stain of sacrilege. Beside, the 
monks of Peterborough, no doubt, had no wish that the 
world should spy out their nakedness, and become aware 
that the Golden Borough was stripped of all its gold. 

Nevertheless, truth will out Golden Borough was 
Golden Borough no more. The treasures were never 
restored; they went to sea with the Danes, and were 
scattered far and wide — to Norway, to Ireland, to Den- 
mark ; " all the spoils," says the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, 
" which reached the latter coimtry, being the palliimi and 
some of the shrines and crosses ; and many of the other 
treasures they brought to one of the king's towns, and 
laid them up in the church. But one night, through 
their carelessness and drunkenness, the chiurch was 
burned, with all that was therein. Thus was the minster 
of, Peterborough burned and pillaged. May Almighty 
God have pity on it in His great mercy. And thus 
Abbot Turold came to Peterborough. . . . When Bishop 



T%e Wake. 133 

Egelric heard this, he excommunicated the men who 
had done this evil. There was a great famine this 
year." 

Hereward, when blamed for the deed, said always that 
he did it " because of his allegiance to the monastery." 

And some of the treasure, at least, he must have surely 
given back, he so appeased the angry shade of St Peter. 
For on that night, when marching past Stamford, he and 
his lost their way. " To whom a certain wonder hap- 
pened, and a miracle, if it can be said that such would 
be worked in favour of men of blood. For while in 
the wild night and dark they wandered in the wood, 
a huge wolf met them, wagging his tail like a tame 
dog, and went before them on a path. And they, 
taking the grey beast in the darkness for a white dog, 
cheered on each other to follow him to his farm, which 
ought to be hard by. And in the silence of the mid- 
night, that they might see their way, suddenly candles 
appeared, burning, and clinging to the lances of all 
the knights — not very bright, however: but like those 
which the folk called candelae nympharum — wills of the 
wisp. But none could pull them oflf, or altogether 
extinguish them, or throw them from their hands. And 
thus they saw their way, and went on, although asto- 
nished out of mind, with the wolf leading them until 
day dawned, and they saw, to their great astonishment, 
that he was a wolf. And as they questioned among 



134 JSereward 

themselves about what had befallen, the wolf and the 
candles disappeared, and they came whither they had 
been minded, beyond Stamford town, thanking God, and 
wondering at what had happened." 

After which Hereward took Torfrida, and his child, 
and all he had, and took ship at Bardeney, and went for 
Ely. Which when Earl Warrenne heard, he laid wait 
for him, seemingly near littleport : but got nothing 
thereby, according to Richard of Ely, but the pleasure d[ 
giving and taking a great deal of bad language ; and 
(after his men had refused, reasonably enough, to swim 
the Ouse and attack Hereward) ?in arrow, which Here- 
ward, " modicum se inclinans," stooping forward, says the 
chronicler— who probably saw the deed — shot at him 
across the Ouse, as the Earl stood cursing on the top of 
the dyke. Which arrow flew so stout and strong, that 
though it sprang back from Earl Warrenne's hauberk, it 
knocked him almost senseless off his horse, and forced 
him to defer his purpose of avenging Sir Frederic his 
brother. 

After which Hereward threw himself into Ely, and 
assumed, by consent of all, the command of the English 
who were therein. 



The Wake. igj 



CHAPTER VIII. 

HOW THEY HELD A GREAT MEETING IN THE HALL 

OF ELY. 

There sat round the hall of Ely all the magnates of 
the East land and East sea. The Abbot was on his high 
seat ; and on a seat higher than his, prepared specially^ 
Sweyn Ulfsson, King of Denmark and England. By 
them sat the bishops^ Egelwin the Englishman and 
Christiem the Dane ; Asbiom ; the young Earls Edwin 
and Morcar, and Sweyn*s two sons ; and, it may be, the 
sons of Tosti Godwinsson, and Arkill the great Thane, and 
Siward Bam, and Hereward himself Below them were^ 
knights, vikings, captains, great Holders from Denmark, 
and the Prior and inferior officers of Ely minster. And 
at the bottom of the misty hall, on the other side of the 
column of blue vapour which went trembling up from the 
great heap of burning turf amidst, were housecarles, monks,, 
wild men from the Baltic shores, crowded together to 
hear what was done in that parliament of their betters. 

They spoke like free Danes ; the betters from the 
upper end of the hall, but every man as he chose. They 



136 Hereward 

were in fuU Thing ; in parliament, as their forefathers had 
been wont to be for countless ages. Their House of 
Lords and their House of Commons were not yet defined 
from each other : but they knew the rules of the house, 
the courtesies of debate; and, by practice of free 
speech, had educated themselves to bear and forbear, 
like gentlemen. 

But the speaking was. loud and earnest, often angry 
that day. " What was to be done % " was the question 
before the house. 

" That depended," said Sweyn, the wise and prudent 
king, " on what could be done by the English to co- 
operate with them." And what that was, has been 
ahready told. 

" When Tosti Godwinsson, ye Bishops, Jarls, Knights, 
and Holders, came to me five years ago, and bade me 
take my rights in this land of England, I answered him, 
that I had not wit enough to do the deeds which Canute 
my uncle did ; and so sat still in peace. I little thought 
that I should have lost in five years so much of those 
small wits to which I confessed, that I should come after 
all to take my rightful kingdom of England, and find two 
kings in it already, both more to the English mind than 
I am. While William the Frenchman is king by the 
sword, and Edgar the Englishman king by proclamation 
of Earls and Thanes, there seems no room here for 
Sweyn, nephew of Canute, king of kings." 



The Wake. 137 

" We will make room for you ! We will make a rid 
poad from here to Winchester ! " shouted the Meeting, 
with one voice. 

" It is too late. What say you, Hereward Leofiricsson, 
who go for a wise man among men ) " 

Hereward rose, and spoke gracefully, earnestly, elo- 
quently : but he could not deny Sweyn*s plain words. 

" The Wake beats about the bush," said Jarl Asbiom, 
rising when Hereward sat down. " None knows better 
than he that all is over. Earl Edwin and Earl Morcar, 
who should have helped us along Watling Street, are 
here fugitives. Earl Gospatric and Earl Waltheof are 
William's men now, soon to raise the landsfolk against 
us. We had better go home, before we have eaten up 
the monks of Ely." 

Then Hereward rose again, and without an openly in- 
sulting word, poured forth his scorn and rage upon 
Asbiom. Why had he not kept to the agreement which 
he and Countess Gyda had made with him through 
Tosti's sons ) Why had he wasted time and men from 
Dover to Norwich, instead of coming straight into the 
fens, and marching inland to succour Morcar and 
Edwin ? Asbiom had ruined the plan, and he only, if it 
was ruined. 

" And who was I, to obey The Wake 1 " asked Asbiom 
fiercely. 

" And who wert thou, to disobey me 1 " asked Sweyn 



138 Htreward 

in a terrible voice. " Hereward is right We shall see 
what thou sayest to all this, in full Thing at home in 
Denmark." * 

Then Edwin rose, entreating peace. "They were 
beaten. The hand of God was against them. Why 
should they struggle any more 1 Or, if they struggled on, 
why should they involve the Danes in their own ruini" 

Then man after man rose, and spoke rough Danish 
common sense. They had come hither to win England. 
They had found it won already. Let them take what 
they had got from Peterborough, and go. 

Then Winter sprang up. " Take the pay, and sail off 
with it, without having done the work 1 That would be 
a noble tale to carry home to your fair wives in Jutland. 
I shall not call you niddering, being a man of peace, 
as all know." Whereat all laughed; for the doughty 
little man had not a hand's breadth on head or arm 
without its scar. " But if your ladies call you so, you 
must have a shrewd answer to give, beside knocking 
them down." 

Sweyn spoke without rising : — " The good knight for- 
gets that this expedition has cost Denmark already nigh 
as much as Harold Hardraade*s cost Norway. It is hard 
upon the Danes, if they are to go away empty-handed as 
well as disappointed." 

" The King has right ! " cried Hereward. " Let them 

* Asbiom is said to have been outlawed on his return home. 



The Wake, 13^ 

take the plunder of Peterborough as pay for what they 
have done, and what beside they would have done if 
Asbiom the Jarl — Nay, men of England, let us be just ! — 
what Asbiom himself would have done if there had been 
heart and wit, one mind and one purpose, in England. 
The Danes have done their best They have shown 
themselves what they are, our blood and kin. I know 
that some talk of treason, of bribes. Let us have no 
more such vain and foul suspicions. They came as our 
friends ; and as our friends let them go, and leave us to 
fight out our own quarrel to the last drop of blood." 

" Would God ! " said Swe)ai, " thou wouldest go too, 
thou good knight Here, earls and gentlemen of 
England ! Sweyn Ulfsson offers to every one of you, 
who will come to Denmark with him, shelter and hos- 
pitality till better times shall come." 

Then arose a mixed cry. Some would go, some would 
not. Some of the Danes took the proposal cordially ; 
some feared bringing among themselves men who would 
needs want land, of which there was none to give. It 
the English came, they must go up the Baltic, and con- 
quer fresh lands for themselves from heathen Letts and 
Finns. 

Then Hereward rose again, and spoke so nobly and so 
well, that all ears were charmed. 

They were Englishmen; and they would rather die 
in their own merry England than win new kingdoms in 



I40 Hereward 

the cold northreast They were sworn, the leaders of 
them, to die or conquer, fighting the accursed French- 
man. They were bound to St. Peter, and to St. Guthlac, 
and to St. Felix of Ramsey, and St. Etheldreda the holy 
virgin beneath whose roof they stood, to defend against 
Frenchmen the saints of England whom they despised 
and blasphemed, whose servants they cast out, thrust into 
prison, and murdered, that they might bring in Frendi- 
men from Normandy, Italians from the Pope of Rome. 
Sweyn Ulfsson spoke as became him, as a prudent and a 
generous prince ; the man who alone of all kings defied 
and fought the great Hardraade till neither could fight 
more ; the true nephew of Canute the king of kings : 
and they thanked him; but they would live and die 
Englishmen. 

And every Englishman shouted, " Hereward is right 1 
We will live and die fighting the French." 

And Sweyn Ulfsson rose again, and said with a great 
oath, " That if there had been three such men as Here- 
ward in England, all would have gone well." 

Hereward laughed. "Thou art wrong for once, wise 
king. We have failed, just because there were a dozen 
men in England as good as I, every man wanting his 
own way ; and too many cooks have spoiled the broth. 
What we wanted is not a dozen men like me, but one 
like thee, to take us all by the back of the neck and 
shake us soundly, and say, ■ Do that, or die ! ' " 



The Wake. 141 

And so, after much talk, the meeting broke up. And 
when it broke up, there came to Hereward in the hall a 
noble-looking man of his own age, and put his hand 
within his, and said : — 

" Do you not know me, Hereward Leofricsson % " 

" I know thee not, good knight, more pity; but by thy 
dress and carriage, thou shouldest be a true Vikingsson.*' 

"I am Sigtryg Ranaldsson, now King of Waterford, 
And my wife said to me, ' If there be treachery or faint- 
heartedness, remember this — ^that Hereward Leofricsson 
slew the Ogre, and Hannibal of Marazion likewise, and 
brought me safe to thee. And, therefore, if thou provest 
false to him, niddering thou art; and no niddering is 
spouse of mine.* " 

"Thod art Sigtryg Ranaldsson 1" cried Hereward, 
clasping him in his arms, as the scenes of his wild youth 
rushed across his mind. " Better is old wine than new, 
and old friends likewise.** 

" And I, and my five ships, are thine to death. Let 
who will go back.** 

"They must go,*' said Hereward, half-peevishly. 
" Sweyn has right, and Asbiom too. The game is played 
out. Sweep the chessmen off the board, as Earl Ulf did 
by Canute the king.** 

" And lost his life thereby. I shall stand by, and see 
thee play the last pawn.'* 

" And lose thy life in likewise." 



J 4a Hereward 

" What matter 1 I heard thee sing — 

* A bed-death, a priest death, 
A straw death, a cow death. 
Such death likes not me.* 

Nor likes it me either, Hereward Leofricsson." 

So the Danes sailed away : butSigtryg Ranaldsson and 
his five ships remained. 

Hereward went up to the minster tower ; and watched 
the Ouse flashing with countless oars northward toward 
Southrey Fen. And when they were all out of sight, he 
went back, and lay down on his bed, and wept — once 
and for all. Then he arose, and went down into the 
hall to abbots and monks, and earls and knights, and was 
the boldest, cheeriest, wittiest of them all. 

"They say,'* quoth he to Torfrida that night, "that 
some men have grey heads on green shoulders. I have a 
^ey heart in a green body." 

" And my heart is growing very grey, too," said Tor* 
frida. 

" Certainly not thy head." And he played with her 
raven locks. 

" That may come, too ; and too soon.*' 

For, indeed, they were in very evil case. 



77u Wake. 143 



CHAPTER IX. 

HOW THEY rOUGHT AT ALDRETH. 

When William heard that the Danes were gone, he 
marched on Ely, as on an easy prey. 

Ivo Taillebois came with him, hungry after those 
Spalding lands, the rents whereof Hereward had been 
taking for his men for now twelve months. William 
de Warrenne was there, vowed to revenge the death of 
Sir Frederick, his brother. Ralph Guader was there, 
flushed with his success at Norwich. And with them 
were all the Frenchmen of the east, who had been either 
expelled from their lands, or were in fear of expulsion. 

With them, too, was a great army of mercenaries, 
ruffians from all France and Flanders, hired to fight for a 
certain term, on the chance of plunder or of fiefs in 
land. Their brains were all aflame with the tales of 
inestimable riches hidden in Ely. There were there the 
jewels of all the monasteries round ; there were the 
treasures of all the fugitive English nobles ; there were 
there — what was there not 1 And they grumbled, when 
William halted them and hutted them at Cambridge, and 



144 Hereward 

began to feel cautiously the strength of the place — ^which 
must be strong, or Hereward and the English would not 
have made it their camp of refuge. 

Perhaps he rode up to Madingley windmill ; and saw 
fifteen miles away, clear against the sky, the long line of 
what seemed nought but a low upland park, with the 
minster tower among the trees; and between him and 
them, a rich champaign of grass, over which it was easy 
enough to march all the armies of Europe ; and thought 
Ely an easy place to take. But men told him that 
between him and those trees lay a black abyss of mud 
and peat and reeds, Haddenham fen and Smithy fen, 
with the deep sullen West water or " Ald-redie " * of the 
Ouse winding through them. The old Roman road to 
Stretham was sunk and gone long since under the bog, 
whether by English neglect, or whether (as some think) 
by actual and bodily sinking of the whole land. The 
narrowest space between dry land and dry land was a 
full half-mile ; and how to cross that half-mile, no man 
knew. 

What were the approaches on the west 1 There were 
none. Beyond Earith, where now run the great washes 

* I give the supposed etymologies of one of the various spellings 
of " Alrehede," now Aldreth. A better is Alre-hythe, the Alder- 
shore; a better still perhaps, St Etheldreda, or Audrey, herself. 
St. Audrey's Causeway leads to the spot ; St Audrey's well is, or 
was, on the slope above ; and the name of the place may be simply 
Audrey's Hythe. 



Tke Wake. 145 

of the Bedford Level, was a howling wilderness of meres, 
eas, reed-ronds and floating alder-beds, through which 
only the fen-men wandered, with leaping-pole and log 
canoe.* 

What in the east 1 The dry land neared the island on 
that side. And it may be that William rowed round by 
Burwell to Fordham and Soham, and thought of attempt- 
ing the island by way of Barraway; and saw beneath 
him a labyrinth of islands, meres, fens, with the Cam, 
increased by the volume of the Ouse, spreading far 
deeper and broader than now between Barraway and 
Thetford-in-the-Isle ; and saw, too, that a disaster in 
that lab3ninth might be a destruction.t 

So he determined on the near and straight path, 
tiirough Long Stanton and Willingham, down the old 
bridle-way from Willingham ploughed field; — every 
village there, and in the isle likewise, had and has still 
its *' field,'* or ancient clearing of ploughed land, — and 

* The " bridge two miles long," which the Liber Eliensis says that 
William made to the west of the isle, is surely only a traditional 
exaggeration of his repairs of Aldreth Causeway to the south-west 
On the west, the Isle must have been utterly unapproachable. 

t It may be well to explain to those who do not know the Fens, 
that the Ouse formerly parted at the Isle of Ely, half its waters 
running eastward by Aldreth into the Cam, half wandering north- 
ward to inundate vast morasses to the west of the isle. Through 
those morasses (now fertile fields), and above their level, the great 
works of the Bedford Level now convey the Ouse straight to the tide 
at Denver sluice. 

VOL. IL L 



146 Hereward 

then to try that terrible half-mile, with the courage and 
wit of a general to whom human lives were as those of 
the gnats under the hedge. 

So all his host camped themselves in Willinghami 
field, by the old earth-work which men now call Belsar's 
Hills : and down the bridle-way poured countless men, 
bearing timber and faggots, cut from all the hills, that 
they might bridge the black half-mile. 

They made a narrow firm path through the reeds, and 
down to the brink of the Ouse, if brink it could be 
called, where the water, rising and falling a foot or two 
each tide, covered the floating peat for many yards, before 
it sunk into a brown depth of bottomless slime. They 
would make a bottom for themselves by driving piles. 

The piles would not hold ; and they began to make a 
floating bridge with long beams, say the chroniclers, and 
blown-up cattle-hides to float them. 

Soon they made a floating-sow, and thrust it on before 
them as they worked across the stream ; for they were 
getting under shot fi:om the island. 

Meanwhile, the besieged had not been idle. They 
had thrown up a turf rampart on the island shore, and 
" ante-muralia et propugnacula," — doubtless overhanging 
" hoardings," or scaffolds, through the floor of which 
they could shower down missiles.* And so they awaited 

• Was this **Hereward's Fort, ",which was still shown in the Fen* 
in the days of Roger of Wendover ? 






The Wake. I47r 

the attack, contenting themselves with gliding in and out 
of the reeds in their canoes, and annoying the builders 
with arrows and cross-bow bolts. 

At last the bridge was finished, and the sow safe 
across the Westwater ; and thrust in, as far as it would 
float, among the reeds on the high tide. They in the 
fort could touch it with a pole. 

The English would have destroyed it if they could ^ 
But The Wake bade them leave it alone. He had 
watched all their work, and made up his mind to the 
event. 

" The rats have set a trap for themselves," he said ta 
his men ; " and we shall be fools to break it up till the 
rats are safe inside." 

So there the huge sow lay, black and silent, showing 
nothing to the enemy but a side of strong plank, covered 
with hide to prevent its being burned. It lay there for 
three hours, and The Wake let it lie. 

He had never been so cheerful, so confident. " Play 
the man this day, every one of you ; and ere nightfall you 
will have taught the Frenchman once more the lesson of 
York* He seems to have forgotten that* It is time to 
remind him of it." 

And he looked to his bow and to his arrows, and pre- 
pared to play the man himself; as was the fashion in 
those old days, when a general proved his worth by 
hitting harder and more surely than any of his men. 



148 Hereward 

At last the army was in motion, and Willingham field 
opposite was like a crawling ants' nest Brigade after 
brigade moved down to the reed beds, and the assault 
began. 

And now advanced along the causeway, and along the 
bridge, a dark column of men, surmounted by glittering 
steel ; knights in complete mail ; footmen in leather coats 
and jerkins; at first orderly enough, each under the 
banner of his lord : but more and more mingled and 
crowded, as each hurried forward, eager for his selfish 
share of the inestimable treasures of Ely. They pushed 
along the bridge. The mass became more and more 
crowded ; men stumbled over each other, and fell oflf 
into the mire and water, calling vainly for help : but 
their comrades hurried on unheeding, in the mad thirst 
for spoil. ^ 

On they came in thousands; and fresh thousands 
streamed out of the fields, as if the whole army intended 
to pour itself into the isle at once. 

"They are numberless," said Torfrida, in a serious 
and astonished voice, as she stood by Hereward's side. 

" Would they were ! " said Hereward. " Let them 
come on, thick and threefold. The more their numbers, 
the fatter will the fish below be, before to-morrow morn- 
ing. Look there, already ! " 

And already the bridge was swaying, and sinking 
beneath their weight. The men, in places, were ankle 



The Wake. 149 

deep in water. They rushed on all the more eagerly ; 
filled the sow, and swarmed up to its roof. 

Then, what with its own weight, what with the weight 
of the laden bridge which dragged upon it from behind, 
the huge sow began to tilt backwards, and slide down 
the slimy bank. 

The men on the top tried vainly to keep their footing ; 
to hurl grapnels into the rampart ; to shoot off their 
quarrels and arrows. 

" You must be quick, Frenchmen,'* shouted Hereward 
in derision, " if you mean to come on board here/' 

The French knew that well : and as Hereward spoke, 
two panels in the front of the sow creaked on their 
hinges, and dropped landward, forming two draw-bridges, 
over which reeled to the attack a close body of knights, 
mingled with soldiers bearing scaling ladders. 

They recoiled. Between the ends of the draw-bridges 
and the foot of the rampart was some two fathoms' 
breadth of black ooze. The catastrophe which The 
Wake had foreseen was come, and a shout of derision 
arose from the unseen defenders above. 

" Come on, leap it like men ! Send back for your 
horses, knights, and ride them at it like bold hunts- 
men ! " 

The front rank could not but rush on : for the pressure 
behind forced them forward, whether they would or not. 
In a moment they were wallowing waist deep ; trampled 



150 Hereward 

on ; disappearing under their struggling comrades, who 
<lisappeared in their timi. 

" Look, Torfrida I If they plant their scaling ladders, 
it will be on a foundation of their comrades* corpses." 

Torfrida gave one glance through the openings of the 
hoarding, upon the writhing mass below, and turned 
away in horror. The men were not so merciful. Down 
between the hoarding-beams rained stones, javelins, 
arrows, increasing the agony and death. The scaling 
ladders would not stand in the mire ; if they had stood 
a moment, the struggles of the dying would have thrown 
them down. And still fresh victims pressed on from 
behind, shouting " Dex Aie ! On to the gold of Ely ! *' 
And still the sow, under the weight, slipped further and 
further back into the stream, and the foul gulf widened 
between besiegers and besieged. 

At last one scaling ladder was planted upon the bodies 
of the dead, and hooked firmly on the gunwale of the 
hoarding. Ere it could be hurled off again by the 
English, it was so crowded with men that even Here- 
ward's strength was insufficient to lift it off. He stood 
at the top, ready to hew down the first comer; and he 
hewed him down. 

But the French were not to be daunted. Man after 
man dropped dead from the ladder top, — man after man 
took his place ; sometimes scrambling over each other's 
backs. 



The Wake. 151 

The English, even in the insolence of victory, cheered 
them with honest admiration. " You are fellows worth 
f ghting, you French ! " 

''So we are,*' shouted a knight, the first and last who 
crossed that parapet ; for, thrusting Hereward back with 
a blow of his sword-hilt, he staggered past him over the 
hoarding, and fell on his knees. 

A dozen men were upon him : but he was up again 
and shouting : — 

" To me, men at arms 1 A Deda I A Deda ! ** But 
no man answered. 

" Yield !" quoth Hereward. 

Sir Deda answered by a blow on Hereward's helmet, 
which felled The Wake to his knees, and broke the sword 
into twenty splinters. 

" Well hit ! " said Hereward, as he rose. " Don't touch 
him, men ! this is my quarrel now. Yield, sir ! you have 
done enough for your honour. It is madness to throw 
-away your life." 

The knight looked round on the fierce ring of faces, 
in the midst of which he stood alone. 

" To none but The Wake." 

" The Wake am I." 

"Ah," said the knight, "had I but hit a little harder !" 

"You would have broke your sword into more 
splinters. My armour is enchanted. So yield like a 
reasonable and valiant man." 



IS2 Hereward 

"AVhat care 11" said the knight, stepping on to the 
earthwork, and sitting down quietly. "I vowed to 
St. Mary and King William that into Ely I would get 
this day ; and in Ely I am ; so I have done my work." 

" And now you shall taste — ^as such a gallant knight 
deserves — ^the hospitality of Ely." 

It was Torfrida who spoke. 

" My husband's prisoners are mine ; and I, when I 
find them such gallant knights as you are, have no lighter 
chains for them than that which a lady's bower can 
aflford." 

Sir Deda was going to make an equally courteous 
answer, when over and above the shouts and curses of 
the combatants rose a yell so keen, so dreadful, as made 
all hurry forward to the rampart. 

That which The Wake had foreseen was come at last. 
The bridge, strained more and more by its living burden, 
and by the falling tide, had parted, — not at the Ely end, 
where the sliding of the sow took off the pressure, — ^but 
at the end nearest the camp. One sideway roll it gave, 
and then, turning over, engulfed in that foul stream the 
flower of Norman chivalry ; leaving a line — z. full quarter 
of a mile in length — of wretches drowning in the dark 
water, or, more hideous still, in the bottomless slime of 
peat and mud. 

Thousands are said to have perished. Their armour 
and weapons were found at times, by delvers and dykers. 



The Wdkf. 153 

for centuries after; are found at times unto this day, 
beneath the rich drained corn-fields which now fill up 
that black half-mile ; or in the bed of the narrow brook 
to which the Westwater, robbed of its streams by the 
Bedford Level, has dwindled down at last 

William, they say, struck his tents, and departed forth- 
with, " groaning fi:om deep grief of heart." Eastward 
he went, and encamped the remains of his army at 
Brandon, where he seems to have begun that castle, the 
ruins of which still exist in Weeting Park hard by. He 
put a line of sentinels along the Rech-dyke, which men 
now call the Devil's Ditch ; and did his best to blockade 
the isle, as he could not storm it. And' so ended the 
first battle of Aldreth. 



154 Hereward 



CHAPTER X. 

HOW SIR DEDA BROUGHT NEWS FROM ELY. 

A MONTH after the fight, there came into the camp at 
Brandon^ riding on an ambling pad, himself fat and 
well-liking, none other than Sir Deda. 

Boisterously he was received, as one alive from the 
dead ; and questioned as to his adventures and sufferings. 

" Adventures I have had, and strange ones ; but as for 
sufferings — ^instead of fetter-galls, I bring back, as you see, 
a new suit of clothes ; instead of an empty and starved 
stomach, a surfeit from good victuals and good liquor ; 
and whereas I went into Ely on foot, I came out on a 
fast hackney." 

So into William's tent he went ; and there he told his 
tale. 

" So, Deda, my friend ?" quoth the Duke in high good 
humour, for he loved Deda. " You seem to have been 
in good company 1 " 

" Never in better, sire, save in your presence. Of the 
earls and knights in Ely, all I can say is, God's pity that 
they are rebels ; for more gallant and courteous knights or 



The Wake. 155 

more perfect warriors never saw I neither in Normandy 
nor at Constantinople, among the Varangers themselves." 

" £h ? and what are the names of these gallants, for 
you have used your eyes and ears, of course % *' 

" Edwin and Morcar, the earls — two fine young lads." 

"I know it. Go on," and a shade passed over 
William's brow as he thought of his own falsehood, and of 
his fair daughter, weeping in vain for the fair bridegroom 
whom he had promised to her. 

" Siward Bam, as they call him, the boy Orgar, and 
Thurkil Bam. Those are the knights. Egelwin, bishop 
of Durham, is there too; and besides them all, and 
above them all, Hereward The Wake. The like of that 
knight I may have seen. His better saw I never." 

" Sir fool ! " said Earl Warrenne> who had not yet— • 
small blame to him — forgotten his brother's death. 
" They have soused thy brains with their muddy ale, 
till thou knowest not friend from foe. What, hast thou 
to come hither praising up to the king's majesty such an 
outlawed villain as that, with whom no honest knight 
would keep company?' 

" If you. Earl Warrenne, ever found Deda dmnk or 
^yingj it is more than the king here has done." 

" Let him speak, Earl," said William. " I have not an 
honester man in my camp \ and he speaks for my infor- 
mation, not for yours." 

"Then for yours will I speak. Sir King. These 



156 Hereward 

men treated me knightly, and sent me away without 
ransom. 

"They had an eye to their own profit, it seems/* 
grumbled the earl. 

" But force me they did to swear on the holy Gospels 
that I should tell your majesty the truth, the whole truth, 
and nothing but the truth. And I keep my oath," quoth 
Deda. 

" Go on, then, without fear or favour. Are there any 
other men of note in the island 1" 

« No.'' 

" Are they in want of provisions 1" 

" Look how they have fattened me." 

" What do they complain of 1 " 

" I will tell you, Sir King. The monks, like many 
more, took fright at the coming over of our French men 
of God to set right all their filthy barbarous ways ; and 
that is why they threw Ely open to the rebels." 

" I will be even with the sots," quoth WiUiam. 

" However they think that danger blown over just 
now j for they have a story among them, which, as my 
Lord the King never heard before, he may as well hear 
now." 

"Eh?" 

" How your majesty should have sent across the sea 
a whole shipload of French monks." 

" That have I, and will more, till I reduce these 



77u Wake. 157 

swme into something like obedience to his Holiness of 
Rome." 

"Ah, but your majesty has not heard how one 
Bruman, a valiant English knight, was sailing on the 
sea and caught those monks. Whereon he tied a great 
sack to the ship's head, and cut the bottom out, and 
made every one of those monks get into that sack and 
so fall through into the sea \ whereby he rid the monks 
of Ely of their rivals." 

"Pish! why tell me such an old wives' fable, 
knight % " 

"Because the monks believe that old wives* fable, 
and are stout-hearted and stifihecked accordingly." 

" The blood of mart3rrs is the seed of the Church," 
said William's chaplain, a pupil and friend of Lanfranc ; 
" and if these men of Belial drowned every man of God 
in Normandy, ten would spring up in their places to 
convert this benighted and besotted land of Simonites 
and Balaamites, whose priests, like the brutes which 
perish, scruple not to defile themselves, and the service 
of the altar, with things which they impudently call their 



wives." 



"We know that, good chaplain," quoth William im- 
patiently. He had enough of that language from Lan- 
franc himself; and, moreover, was thinking more of the 
Isle of Ely, than of the celibacy of the cleigy. 

"Well, Sir Dedal" 



158 Herewara 

" So they have got together all their kin ; for among 
these monks every one is kin to a thane, or knight, or 
even an earl : and there they are, brother by brother, 
cousin by cousin, knee to knee, and back to back, like 
a pack of wolves, and that in a hold which you will not 
enter yet awhile." 

^' Does TOY friend Deda doubt his Duke's skill at 
last?" 

"Sir Duke — Sir King I mean now, for king you^are 
and deserve to be — I know what you can do. I re- 
member how we took England at one blow on Senlac 
field : but see you here, Sir King, how will you take an 
island with four such saints to guard it as St. Etheldreda, 
St Withberga, St Sexberga, and St Ermenilda % " 

" By promising the holy ladies," said William, with a 
smile, "to honour them better than ever did yet an 
English swine." 

" Amen : but again, how will you take an island where 
four kings such as you (if the world would hold four such 
at once) could not stop one churl from ploughing' the 
land, or one birdcatcher from setting lime-twigs 1 " * 

"And what if I cannot stop the birdcatchers ? Do 
they expect to lime Frenchmen as easily as sparrows ? " 

"Sparrows! It is not sparrows that I have been 

• I have followed Deda's account of Ely and its folk, as given 
both in the Peterborough MSS, and in the Liber jEliensis, almost 
word for word throughout 



The Wake. ISJT 

fattening on this last month. I tell you, sire, I have 
seen wild fowl alone in that island enough to feed them 
all the year round. I was there in the moulting time^ 
and saw them take — one day one hundred, one twa 
hundred ; and once, as I am a belted knight, a thousand 
duck out of one single mere.* There is a wood there, 
with herons sprawling about the tree-tops — I did not think 
there were so many in the world ; otters and weasels, 
ermines and pole-cats, for fur robes; and fish for Lent 
and Fridays in every puddle and leat — ^pike and perch, 
roach and eels, on every old wife's table ; while the knights 
think scorn of anything worse than smelt and burbot.+ 

" Splendeur Dex ! " quoth William, who, Norman-like, 
did not dislike a good dinner. " I must keep Lent in 
Ely before I die." 

"Then you had best make peace with the burbot- 
eating knights, my lord." 

" But have they flesh-meat 1 " 

" The island is half of it a garden — richer land, they 



* Ficedulae (beccaficos, by which the good monk means wheatears^ 
and such small birds) coots, divers, "watercrows,'' cranes, and 
ducks. 

+ " Innumerable eels, great water-wolves and pickerel, perches, 
roaches, burbots, and mursenas, which we call water-serpents." (These 
last seem to be mythical, unless the silurus glani$ still lingered, as it 
may have done, in the waters of the' Ouse). " Sometimes also isicii 
(smelts, I presume, as they are still abundant in the Ouse) and the 
royal fish nimbus" (turbot) : surely a misnomer for the sturgeon. 



i6o Hereward 

say, is none in these realms^and I believe it : but, besides 
that, there is a deer-park there with a thousand head in 
it, red and fallow, beside hares ; and plenty of swine and 
goats* in woods, and sheep, and cattle : and if they fail 
there are plenty more to be got, they know where." 

"They know where? Do you. Sir Knight 1" asked 
William keenly. 

" Out of every little island in their fens, for forty miles 
on end. There are the herds fattening themselves on 
the richest pastures in the land, and no man needing to 
herd them, for they are all safe among dykes and meres." 

" I will make my boats sweep their fens clear of every 
head '' 

" Take care, my Lord King, lest never a boat come 
back from that errand. With their narrow flat-bottomed 
punts, cut out of a single log, and their leaping-poles, 
wherewith they fly over dykes of thirty feet in width — 
they can ambuscade in those reed-beds and alder-beds, 
kill whom they will, and then flee away through the 
marsh, like so many horse-flies. And if not, one trick 
have they left, which they never try save when driven 
into a comer : but from that may all saints save us ! " 

" What then ? " 

" Firing the reeds." 

" And destroying their own cover 1 " 

* That the goat as well as the stag was common in the fens, the 
horns found in peat and gravel testify. 



The Wake, i6i 

" Trae : therefore they will only do it in despair." 

"Then to despair will I drive them, and try their 
worst. So these monks are as stout rebels as the 
earls ? " 

" I only say what I saw. At the hall-table there dined 
each day maybe some fifty belted knights, with every 
one a monk next to him ; and at the high table the 
abbot, and the earls, and Hereward and his lady. And 
behind each knight, and each monk likewise, hung 
against the wall, lance and shield, helmet and hauberk, 
sword and axe." 

" To monk as well as knight 1 " 

"As I am a knight myself; and were as well used, 
too, for aught I saw. The monks took turns with the 
knights as sentries, and as foragers likewise ; and the 
knights themselves told me openly, the monks were as 
good men as they." 

" As wicked, you mean," groaned the chaplain. " Oh, 
accursed and bloodthirsty race, why does not the earth 
open and swallow you, with Korah, Dathan, and 
Abiram 1" 

" They would not care," quoth Deda. " They are 
bom and bred in the bottomless pit aheady. They 
would jump over, or floimder out, as they do to their 
own bogs every day." 

" You speak irreverently, my friend," quoth William. 

" Ask those who are in camp, and not me. As for 

VOL. II. M 



1 62 Hereward 

whither they went, or how, the English were not likely 
to tell me. All that I know is, that I saw fresh cattle 
come in every few days, and fresh farms burnt, too, on the 
Norfolk side. There were farms burning only last night, 
between here and Cambridge. Ask your sentinels on 
the Rech-dyke how that came about ? "* 

" I can answer that," quoth a voice from the other 
-end of the tent. " I was on the. Rech-dyke last night; 
close down to the fen — ^worse luck and shame for me." . 

" Answer, then 1 " quoth William, with one of . his 
fiercest oaths, glad to have some one on whom he could 
turn his rage and disappointment 

" There came seven men in a boat up from Ely yester- 
€ven, and five of them were monks ; they came up from 
Burwell fen, and plundered and burnt Burwell town." 

" And where were all you mighty men of war % " 

" Ten of ours ran down to stop them, with Richard, 
Viscount Osbert's nephew^ at their head. The villains 
came at a foot's pace up the Rech-dyke, and attacked 
them at lance-point; and before we could get to 
them ^" 



« 



Thy men had run, of course." 



* See § 23 of the' De Gestis Herewardi, presumed to be by 
Richard of Ely, " And while he had hardly finished his speech, " &c. 
"Those who love to investigate the growth of myths, may profitably 
4imuse themselves by comparing that account with § 106 of the 
Liber Eliensis. The omissions will be as instructive as the in- 
^sertions. 



The Wake. 163 

"They were every one dead or wounded, save 
Richard; and he was fighting single-handed with an 
Englishman, while the other six stood around, and 
looked on." 
" Then they fought fairly 1 " said William. 
" As fairly, to do them justice, as if they had been 
Frenchmen, and not English churls. As we came down 
along the dyke, a little man of them steps between the 
two, and strikes up their swords as if they had been two 
reeds. 'Come!' cries he, 'enough of this. You are 
two stout knights well matched, and you can fight out 
this any other day ; ' and away he and his men go down 
the dyke end to the water," 
" Leaving Richard safe 1" 
" Wounded a little — but safe enough." 
" And then 1 " 

" We followed them to the boat as hard as we could ; 
killed one of their boatmen with a javelin, and caught 
another." 

" Knightly done ! " and William swore an awful oath, 
" and worthy of valiant Frenchmen. These Eriglish set 
you the example of chivalry by letting your comrade 
fight his own battle fairly, instead of setting on him all 
together; and you repay them by himting them down 
with darts, because you dare not go within sword*s-stroke 
of better men than yourselves. Go. I am ashamed of 
yoiL No, stay. Where is your prisoner % For, Sp^en- 

M 2 



164 Hereward 

deur Dex, I will send him back safe and sound in return 
for Deda, to tell the knights of Ely that if they know so 
well the courtesies of war, William of Rouen does too." 

"The prisoner, sire," quoth the knight, tremblings 
« is— is " 

" You have not murdered him ? " 

" Heaven forbid ! but " 

" He broke his bonds and escaped ? " 

" Gnawed them through, sire, as we supposed, and 
escaped through the mire in the dark, after the fashion 
of these accursed frogs of Girvians." 

"But did he tell you nought ere he bade you good 
morning % '* 

" He told us the names of all the seven. He that 
beat down the swords was Hereward himself" 

" I thought as much. AVhen shall I have that fellow 
at my side 1 " 

" He that fought Richard was one Wenoch." 

" I have heard of him." 

"He that we took was Azer the Hardy, a monk 
of Nicole — Licole. And the rest were Turstan the 
Younger; one Siward, another monk ; Leofric the 
Deacon, Hereward's minstrel; and Boter, the traitor 
monk of St. Edmunds." 

" And if I catch them," quoth William, " I will make 
an abbot of every one of them." 

# Sire 1 " quoth liie chaplain, in a deprecating tone. 



>, 



The Wake. 165 



CHAPTER XL . 

HOW HEREWARD PLAYED THE POTTER J AND HOW HE 

CHEATED THE KING, 

They of Ely were now much straitened, being shut 
in both by land and water ; and what was '^to be done, 
either by themselves or by the king, they knew not. 
Would William simply starve them ; or at least inflict on 
them so perpetual a Lent — for of fish there could be 
no lack, even if they ate or drove away all the fowl — 
as would tame down their proud spirits; which a diet 
of fish and vegetables, firom some ludicrous theory of 
monastic physicians, was supposed to do ? * Or was he 
gathering vast armies, fi:om they knew not whence, to 
tiy, once and for all, another assault on the island — ^it 
might be firom several points at once % 

They must send out a spy, and find out news from 
the outer world, if news were to be gotten. But who 
would go % 

So asked the bishop, and the abbot, and the earls, in 
council in the abbot's lodging. 

* The Cornish — the stoutest, tallest, and most prolific race of the 
South — ^live on hardly anything else but fish and vegetables. 



1 66 Hereward 

Torfrida was among them. She was always among 
them now. She was their Ahima-wife, their wise 
woman, whose counsels all received as more than 
human. 

" I will go," said she, rising up like a goddess on 
Olympus. " I will cut off my hair, and put on boy's 
clothes, and smirch myself brown with walnut-leaves ; 
and I will go. I can talk their French tongue. I know 
:their French ways ; and as for a story to cover my 
journey and my doings, trust a. woman's wit to invent 
.that.". . , 

They looked at her, with delight in her courage, but 
with doubt. 

/* If William's French grooms got hold of you, Torfrida, 
it would not be a little walnut-brown which would hide 
you," said Hereward. "But it is like you to offer, — 
^worthy of you, who have no peer." 
: " That she has not," quoth churchmen and soldiers 
alike. 

" Nevertheless-rto send you would be to send The 
xW/ake's praying half; and that would be bad religion. 
The Wake's fighting half is going, ^vJiile you pray here 
as well as watch." 

. " Uncle, uncle ! " said the young earis, " send Winter, 
Geri, Leofwin Prat, any of your good men Tbut not 
yourself. If we lose you, we lose our head and our 
king." 



The Wake, 167 

And all begged Hereward to let any man go, rather 
than himself. 

'' I am going, lords and knights ; and what Hereward 
says he does. It is one day to Brandon. It may be 
two days back ; for if I miscarry — as I most likely shall 
—I must come home round about. On the fourth day, 
you shall hear of me or from me. Come with me,. 
Torfrida." 
And he strode out. 

He cropped his golden locks, he cropped his golden* 
beard; and Torfrida wept, as she cropped them, half 
with fear for him, half for sorrow over his shorn glories. 

" I am no Samson, my lady ; my strength lieth not in 
my locks. Now for some rascal's clothes — ^as little dirty 
as you can get me, for fear of company." 

And Hereward put on filthy garments; and taking 
mare Swallow with him, got into a barge and went across 
the river to Soham. 

He could not go down the Great Ouse, and up the 
Little Ouse, which was his easiest way, for the French 
held all the river below the isle ; and, beside, to have 
come straight from Ely might cause suspicion. So he 
went down to Fordham, and crossed the Lark at Mildeii- 
hall; and just before he got to Mildenhall, he met a 
potter carrying pots upon a pony. 

" Halt, my stout churl," quoth he, " and put thy pots- 
on my mare's back." 



1 68 Hereward 

"The man who wants them must fight for them," 
quoth that stout churl, raising a heavy staff. 

" Then here is he that will," quoth Hereward ; and, 
jumping off his mare, he twisted the staflf out of the 
potter's hands, and knocked him down therewith. 

" That will teach ,thee to know an Englishman when 
thou seest him." 

" I have met my master," quoth the churl, rubbing his 
head. " But dog does not eat dog ; and it is hard to be 
robbed by an Englishman, after being robbed a dozen 
times by the French." 

" I will not rob thee. There is a silver penny for thy 
pots and thy coat — for that I must have likewise. And 
if thou tellest to mortal man aught about this, I will find 
those who will cut thee up for dogs* meat ; but if not, 
then turn thy horse's head and ride back to Ely, if thou 
canst cross the water, and say what has befallen thee ; 
and thou wilt find there an abbot who will give thee 
another penny for thy news." 

So Hereward took the pots, and the potter's clay- 
greased coat, and went on through Mildenhall, " crying," 
saith the chronicler, " after the manner of potters, in 
the English tongue, * Pots ! pots ! good pots and 
pans I ' " 

But when he got through Mildenhall, and well into 
the rabbit-warrens, he gave mare Swallow a kick, and 
went over the heath so fast northward, that his pots 



The Wake. 169 

danced such a dance as broke half of them before he got 
to Brandon. 

" Never mind," quoth he, ** they will think that I have 
sold them. And when he neared Brandon he pulled up, 
sorted his pots, kept the whole ones, threw the shreds at 
the rabbits, and walked on into Brandon solemnly, lead- 
ing the mare, and crying " Pots ! " 

So " semper marcida et deformis aspectu " — lean and 
ill-looking — was that famous mare, says the chronicler, 
that no one would suspect her splendid powers, or take 
her for anj'thing but a potter's nag, when she was capa- 
risoned in proper character. Hereward felt thoroughly 
at home in his part ; as able to play the Englishman 
which he was by rearing, as the Frenchman which he 
was by education. He was full of heart and happy. 
He enjoyed the keen fresh air of the warrens \ he 
enjoyed the ramble out of the isle, in which he had been 
cooped up so long ; he enjoyed the jest of the thing — 
disguise, stratagem, adventure, danger. And so did the 
English, who adored him. None of The Wake*s crafty 
deeds is told so carefully and lovingly ; and none, doubt 
it not, was so often sung in after years by farm-house 
hearths, or in the outlaws' lodge, as this. Robin Hood 
himself may have trolled out many a time, in doggrel 
strain, how Hereward played the potter. 

And he came to Brandon, to the " king's court," from 
which William could command the streams of Wissey 



170 Hereward 

and Little Ouse, with all their fens ; and saw with a curse 
the new buildings of Weeting Castle — like the rest, of 
which Sir F* Palgrave eloquently says — "New, and 
strong, and cruel in their strength — how the Englishman 
must have loathed the damp smell of the frefeh mortar, 
and the sight of the heaps of rubble, and the chippings 
of the stone, and the blurting of the lime upon the green 
sward; and how hopeless he must have felt when the 
great gates opened, and the wains were drawn in, heavily 
laden with the salted beeves, and the sacks of com and 
meal furnished by the Royal demesnes, the manors 
which had belonged to Edward the Confessor, now the 
spoil of the stranger : and when he looked into the 
Castle court, thronged by the soldiers in bright mail, and 
heard the carpenters working upon the ordnance, — every 
blow and stroke, even of the hammer or mallet, speaking 
the language of defiance." 

These things The Wake saw : and felt, like others, 
hopeless for the moment. And there rang in his ears his 
own message to William. " When thou art king of all 
England, I will put my hands between thine, and be 
thy man." 

" He is not king of all England yet ! " thought he 
again ; and drew himself up so proudly, that one passing 
by jeered him — 

" There goes a bold swaggerer enough, to be selling 
pots abroad." The Wake slouched his shoulders ; and 



The Wake. 171 

looked as mean a churl as ever. Next he cast about for 
a night's lodging, for it was dark. 

Outside the town was a wretched cabin of mud and 
turf — such a one as Irish folk live in to this day; and 
Hereward said to himself " This is bad enough to be 
good enough for me." 

So he knocked at the door ; and knocked till it was 
Opened, and a hideous old crone put out her head. 
" Who wants to see me at this time of night % " 
" Any one would, who had heard how beautiful you 
are. Do you want any pots % " 

" Pots 1 What have I to do with pots, thou saucy 
fellow % I thought it was some one wanting a charm." 
And she shut the door. 

"A charm?" thought Hereward. "Maybe she can 
tell me news, if she be a witch. They are shrewd souls, 
these witches, and know more than they tell. And if I 
can get any news, I care not if Satan brings it in 
person." 

So he knocked again, till the old woman looked out 
once more, and bade him angrily be off. 

" But I am belated here, good dame, and afraid of the 
French. And I will give thee the best bit of clay on my 
mare's back — ^pot — pan — panshin— crock — ^jug, or what 
thou wilt, for a night's lodging." 

" Have you any little jars — ^jars no longer than my 
hand % " asked she ; for she used them in her trade, and 



172 Hereward 

had broken one of late : but to pay for one, she had 
neither money nor mind. So she agreed to let Hereward 
sleep there, for the value of two jars. — " But what of 
that ugly brute of a horse of thine ?" 

" She will do well enough in the turf-shed." 

" Then thou must pay with a panshin." 

" Ugh ! " groaned Hereward ; " thou drivest a hard 
bargain, for an Englishwoman, with a poor English- 



man." 



" How knowest thou that I am English % " 

" So much the better if thou art not," thought Here- 
ward ; and bargained with her for a panshin against a 
lodging for the horse in the turf-house, and a bottle of 
bad hay. 

Then he went in, bringing his panniers with him with 
ostentatious care. 

"Thou canst sleep there on the rushes. I have 
nought to give thee to eat" 

" Nought needs nought," said Hereward ; threw him- 
self down on a bundle of rush, and in a few minutes 
snored loudly. 

But he was never less asleep. He looked round the 
whole place ; and he listened to every word. 

The devil, as usual, was a bad paymaster ; for the 
witch's cabin seemed only somewhat more miserable 
than that of other old women. The floor was mud, the 
rafters unceiled ; the stars shone through the turf roof. 



The Wake, 173 

The only hint of her trade was a hanging shelf, on which 
stood five or six little earthen jars, and a few packets of 
leaves. A parchment, scrawled with characters which 
the owner herself probably did not understand, hung 
against the cob wall ; and a human skull — probably used 
only to frighten her patients — dangled from the roof- 
tree. 

But in a comer, stuck against the wall, was something 
which chilled Hereward's'blood a little : — z. dried human 
hand, which he knew must have been stolen off the 
gallows, gripping in its fleshless fingers a candle, which 
he knew was made of human fat. That candle, he knew, 
duly lighted and carried, would enable the witch to walk 
unseen into any house on earth, yea, through the court 
of King William himself, while it drowned all men in 
preternatural slumber. 

Hereward was very much frightened. He believed 
devoutly in the powers of a witch. 

So he trembled on his rushes, and wished himself safe 
through that adventure, without being turned into a hare 
or a wolf. 

" I would sooner be a wolf than a hare, of course : but 
— ^who comes here?" 

And to the first old crone, who sat winking her bleared 
eyes, and warming her bleared hands over a little heap 
of peat in the middle of the cabin, entered another crone, 
if possible uglier. 



1 74 Hereward 

" Two of them ! If I am not roasted and eaten this 
night, I am a lucky man." 

And Hereward crossed himself devoutly, and invoked 
St. Ethelfrida of Ely, St. Guthlac of Crowland, St. Felix 
of Ramsey — ^to Which last Saint, he recollected, he had 
been somewhat remiss : but, above all, St. Peter of 
Peterborough, whose treasures he had given to the 
Danes. And he argued stoutly with St. Peter and with 
his own conscience, that the meatis sanctify the end, and 
that he had done it all for the best. 

" If thou wilt help me out of this strait, and the rest, 
blessed Apostle, I will give thee — I will go to Constan- 
tinople but what I will win it — a golden table, twice as 
fine as those villains carried off; and one of the Bourne 
manors — ^Witham — or Toft — or Mainthorpe — ^whichever 
pleases thee best, in full fee ; and a — and a ^" 

But while Hereward was casting in his mind what 
gewgaw further might suffice to appease the Apostle, he 
was recalled to business and common sense by hearing 
the two old hags talk to each other in French. 

His heart leaped for joy, and he forgot St Peter 
utterly. ^ 

" Well, how have you sped 1 Have you seen the 
kingl" 

" No ; but Ivo Taillebois. Eh % Who the foul fiend 
have you lying there ? " 

'^ Only an English brute. He cannot understand us. 



The Wake. 175 

Talk on : only don't wake the hog. Have you got the 
gold?" 

" Never mind." 

Then there was a grumbling and a quarrelling, from 
which Hereward imderstood that the gold was to be 
shared between them. 

" But it is a bit of a, chain. To cut it will spoil it." 

The other insisted ; and he heard them chop the gold 
chain in two. 

" And is this all 1 " 

" I had work enough to get that. He said, no play 
no pay; and he would give it me after the isle was 
taken. But I told him my spirit was a Jewish spirit, 
that used to serve Solomon the Wise \ and he would not 
serve me, much less come over the sea from Normandy, 
unless he smelt gold ; for he loved it like any Jew." 

" And what did you tell him then 1 " 

" That the king must go back to Aldreth again ; for 
only from thence would he take the igle ; for — and that 
was true enough — I dreamt I saw all the water of Aldreth 
full of wolves, clambering over into the island on each 
other's backs." 

" That means that some of them will be drowned." 

" Let them drown. I left him to find out that part of 
the dream himself. Then I told him how he must make 
another causeway, bigger and stronger than the last, and 
a tower on which I could stand and curse the English. 



I'jS Hereward 

And I promised him to bring a storm right in the faces 
of the English, so that they could neither fight nor 



see." 



" But if the storm does not come ?" 

"It will come. I know the signs of the sky — ^who 
better? — and the weather will break up in a week. 
Therefore I told him he must begin his works at once, 
before the rain came oh ; and that we would go and 
ask the guardian of the well* to tell us the fortunate 
day for attacking." 

" That is my business," said the other ; " and my spirit 
likes the smell of gold as well as yours. Little you 
would have got from me, if you had not given me half 
the chain." 

Then the two rose. 

" Let us see whether the English hog is asleep." 

One of them came and listened to Hereward's breath- 
ing, and put her hand upon his chest His hair stood 
on end ; a cold sweat came over him. But he snored 
more loudly than ever. 

The two old crones went out satisfied. Then Here- 
ward rose, and glided after them. 

They went down a meadow to a little well, which 
Hereward had marked as he rode thither hung round 
with bits of rag and flowers, as similar "holy wells" are 
decorated in Ireland to this day. 

* "Custodem fontium," the g^rdian spirit. 



The Wake. 177 

He hid behind a hedge, and watched them stoop- 
ing over the well, mumbling he knew not what of 
cantrips. 

Then there was a silence, and a tinkling sound as of 
water. 

"Once — twice — ^thrice," counted the witches. Nine 
times he counted the tinkling sound. 

" The ninth day — the ninth day, and the king shall 
take Ely," said one in a cracked scream, rising and 
shaking her fist towards the isle. 

Hereward was more than half-minded to have put his 
dagger — the only weapon which he had — into the two 
old beldames. But the fear of an outcry kept him 
still. He had found out already so much, that he 
was determined to find out more. So to-morrow he 
would go up to the Court itself, and take what luck sent 

He slipt back to the cabin, and lay down again ; and 
as soon as he had seen the two old crones safe asleep, 
fell asleep himself, and was so tired that he laid till the 
sun was high. 

" Get up ! " screamed the old dame at last, kicking 
him, " or I shall make you give me another crock for a 
double night's rest." 

He paid his lodging, put the panniers on the mare, 
and went on crying pots. 

When he came to the outer gateway of the Court, he 
tied up the mare, and carried the crockery in on his own 

VOL. II. N 



1 78 Hereward 

back, boldly. The scullions saw him ; and called him 
into the kitchen, to see his crockery, without the least 
intention of paying for what they took. 

A man of rank belonging to the court came in, and 
stared fixedly at Hereward. 

" You are mightily like that villain Hereward, man,** 
quoth he. 

"Anoni" asked Hereward, looking as. stupid as he 
could. 

" If it were not for hi? brown face and his short hair, 
he is as like the fellow as a churl qan be. to a knight." 

" Bring him into the hall," quoth another ; /* and let us 
see if any man knows him." • . 

Into the grcjathall he was brought, and stared at by- 
knights and squires. He bent his knees, rounded his 
shoulders, and made hirnself look as mean as he could. 

Ivo Taillebois and Earl Warrenne came down and had 
a look at him. 
. "Hereward?" said Ivo. "I will warrant that little 
slouching cur is not he. Hereward must be half "as big 
again, if ^it be true that he can kill a man with one blow 
of his fist." . . 

" You may try the truth of that for yourself some day," 
thought Hereward. 

" Does any one here talk English % Let us question 
the fellow," said Earl Warrenne. 

" Hereward 1 Hereward % Who wants to know about 



Tlie Wake. "179. 

that villain 1" answered the potter, as soon as he was 
asked in English. " Would to heaven he were here, and 
I could see some of you noble knights and earls paying 
him for me : for I owe him more than ever I shall pay 
mysdf." ' ' ^ 

" What does he mean 1 " 

" He came out of the isle ten days ago, nigh on to 
evening, and drove off a cow of mine and four sheep, 
which was all my living, noble knights, save these. 
pots." 

" And where is he since ? " 
; " In the isle, my lords, well-nigh starved, and his folk 
falling away from him daily, from hunger and ague-fits. 
I doubt if there be a hundred sound men left in Ely." 
" Have you been in thither, then, villain 1 '* 
" Heaven forbid 1 I in Ely ? I in the wolfs den ? 
If I went in with naught but my skin, they would have it 
off me before I got out again. Ah, if your lordships would 
but come down, and make an end of him once for all ; 
for he is a great tyrant, and terrible, and devours^us poor 
folk like so many mites in his cheese," 

" Take this babbler into the kitchen, and feed him,'*^ 
quoth Earl Warrenne ; and so the colloquy ended. 

Into the kitchen again the potter went The king's^ 
luncheon was preparing ; so he listened to the chatter ; 
and picked up this at least, which was valuable^to him :. 
that the witches* story was true ; that a great attack would 

N 2 



1 8o Hereward 

be made from Aldreth : that boats had been ordered up 
the river to Cotinglade,* and pioneers and entrenching 
tools were to be sent on that day to the old causeway. 

But soon he had to take care of himself. Earl War: 
renne's. commands to feed him were construed by the 
cook-boys and scullions into a command to make him 
drunk likewise. To make a laughing-stock of an 
Englishman was too tempting a jest to be resisted ; and 
Hereward was drenched (says the chronicler) with wine 
and beer, and sorely baited and badgered At last one 
rascal hit upon a notable plan. 

" Pluck out the English hog's hair and beard, and put 
him blindfold in the midst of his pots, and see what a 
smash we shall have." 

Hereward pretended not to understand the words, 
which were spoken in French; but when they were 
interpreted* to him, he grew somewhat red about the 
ears. 

Submit he would not But if he defended himself, 
and made an uproar in the king's Court, he might very 
likely find himself riding Odin's horse before the hour 
was out. However, happily for him, the wine and beer 
had made him stout of heart, and when one fellow laid 
hold of his beard, he resisted sturdily. 

The man struck him, and that hard. Hereward, hot 

• Seemingly a lade, leat, or canal, through Cottenham Fen to the 
Westwater ; probably a Roman work, now obliterate-'. 



The Wake, i8i 

of temper, and careless of life, struck him again, right 
under the ear. 

The fellow dropped for dead. 

Up leapt cook-boys, scullions, " l^cheurs," (who hung 
about the kitchen to " lecher," lick the platters,) and all 
the foul-mouthed rascality of a great mediaeval house- 
hold, and attacked Hereward " cum furcis et tridentibus," 
with forks and flesh-hooks. 

Then was Hereward aware of a great broach, or spit, 
before the fire ; and recollecting how he had used such 
a one as a boy against the monks of Peterborough, was 
minded to use it against the cooks of Brandon ; which 
he did so heartily, that in a few moments he had killed 
one, and driven the others backward in a heap. 

But his case was hopeless. He was soon overpowered 
by numbers from outside, and dragged into the hall, to 
receive judgment for the mortal crime of slaying a man 
within the precincts of the Court. 

He kept up heart. He knew that the king was there ; 
he knew that he should most likely get justice from the 
king. If not, he could but discover himself, and so save 
his life, for that William would kill him willingly, he did 
not believe. 

So he went in boldly and willingly, and up* the hall, 
where, on the dais, stood William the Norman. 

William had finished his luncheon, and was standing 
at the board-side. A page held water in a silver basin, 



1 8a Hereward 

in which he was was washing his hands. Two more 
knelt, and laced his long boots ; for he was, as always, 
going a-hunting. 

Then Hereward looked at the face of the great man, 
and felt at once that it was the face of the greatest man 
whom he had ever met. 

" I am not that . man's match," said he to himself. 
^* Perhaps it will all end in being his man, and he my 
inaster." 

" Silence, knaves ! " said William, " and speak one of 
you at a time. How came this 1 " 

"A likely story, forsooth!" said he, when he had 
heard. "A poor English potter comes into my court, 
and murders . my ynen^ under my very eyes for mere 
sport. I do not believe you, rascals ! You, churl," 
and he spoke through an English interpreter, " tell me 
your tale, and justice yqu shall have or take, as you 
deserve. I am the King of England, man, and I know 
your tongue, though I speak it not yet, more pity." 

Hereward fell on his knees. 

" If you are indeed my lord the king, then I am safe ; 
for there is justice in you : at least so all men say." And 
he told his tale manfully. 

" Splendeur Dex ! but this is a far likelier story, and I 
believe it. Hark you, you ruffians ! : Here am I, trying 
to conciliate these English by justice and mercy, when- 
-ever they will let me : and here are you outraging them, 



The Wake, . 183 

and driving them mad and desperate, just that you may 
get a handle against them, and thus rob the poor wretches 
and drive them into the forest. From the lowest to the 
highest — from Ivo Taillebois there, down to you cook- 
boys — you are all at the same game. And I will stop it ! 
The next time I heat of outrage to unarmed man or 
harmless woman, I will hang that culprit, were he Odo 
my brother himself." 

This excellent speech was enforced with oaths so 
strange and terrible, that Ivo Taillebois shook in his 
boots ; and the chaplain prayed fervently that the roof 
might not fall in on their heads. 

** Thou smilest, man 1 " said William, quickly, to 
the kneeling Hereward. " So thou understandesl 
French?" 

"A few' words only, most gracious king, which we 
potters pick up, wandering ever3rwhere with our wares," 
said Hereward, speaking in French ; for so keen was 
William's eye, that he thought it safer to play no tricks 
with him. 

Nevertheless, he made his French so execrable, that 
the very scullions grinned, in spite of their fear. 

"Look you," said William, "you are no common 
churl ; you have fought too well for that. I-.et me see 
your ^um." 

Hereward drew up his sleeve. 

" Potters do not carry sword-scars like those ; neither 



184 Hereward 

are they tattooed like English Thanes. Hold up thy 
head, man, and let us see thy throat" 

Hereward, who had carefully hung down his head to 
prevent his throat-patterns being seen, was forced to lift 
it up. 

"Aha! So I expected. There is fair ladies' work 
there. Is not this he who was said to be so like Here- 
ward 1 Very good. Put him in ward till I come back 
from hunting. But do him no harm. For " — and William 
fixed on Hereward eyes of the most intense intelligence 
— " were he Hereward himself, I should be right glad to 
see Hereward safe and sound ; my man at last, and earl 
of all between Humber and the Fens." 
. But Hereward did not rise at the bait With a face of 
stupid and ludicrous terror, he made reply in broken 
French. 

" Have mercy, mercy. Lord King ! Make not that 
fiend earl over us. Even Ivo Taillebois there would be 
better than he. Send him to be earl over the imps in 
hell, or over the wild Welsh who are worse still : but not 
over us, good Lord King, whom he hath polled and 
peeled till we are ^" 

"Silence!" said William, laughing, as did all round 
him. " Thou art a cunning rogue enough, whoever thou 
art Go into limbo, and behave thyself till I come 
back." 

" All saints send your grace good sport, and thereby 



The Wake 185 

me a good deliverance," quoth Hereward, who knew 
that his fate might depend on the temper in which 
William returned. So he was thrust into an outhouse, 
and there locked up. 

He sat on an empty barrel, meditating on the chances 
of his submitting to the king after all, when the door 
opened, and in strode one with a drawn sword in one 
hand, and a pair of leg-shackles in the other. 

" Hold out thy shins, fellow ! Thou art not going to 
sit at thine ease there like an abbot, after killing one of 
us grooms, and bringing the rest of us into disgrace. 
Hold out thy legs, I say ! " 

" Nothing easier," quoth Hereward cheerfully, and held 
out a leg. But when the man stooped to put on the 
fetters, he received a kick which sent him staggering. 

After which he recollected very little, at least in this 
world. For Hereward cut off his head with his own 
sword. 

After which (says the chronicler) he broke away out of 
the house, and over garden walls and palings, hiding and 
running, till he got to the front gate, and leaped upon 
mare Swallow, 

And none saw him, save one unlucky groom-boy, who 
stood yelling and cursing in front of the mare's head, and 
went to seize her bridle. 

Whereon, between the imminent danger, and the bad 
language, Hereward's blood rose, and he smote that un- 



1 86 Hereward 

lucky groom-boy : but whether he slew him or not, the 
chronicler had rather not say. 

Then he shook up mare Swallow, and with one great 
shout of "A Wake ! A Wake !" rode for his life, with 
knights and squires (for the hue and cry was raised) 
galloping at her heels. 

Who then were astonished but those knights, as they 
saw the ugly potter's garron gaining on them, length after 
length, till she and her rider had left them far behind 1 

Who then was proiid but Hereward, as the mare 
tucked her great thighs under her, and swept on over 
heath and rabbit-burrow, over rush and fen, sound ground 
and rotten all alike to that enormous stride, to that keen 
bright eye which foresaw every footfall, to that raking 
shoulder which picked her up ag^in at every stagger % 

Hereward laid the bridle on her neck, and let her go. 
Fall she could not, and tire she could not ; and he half ^ 
wished she might go on for ever. Where could a man 
be better, than on a good horse, with all the cares of this 
life blown away out of his brains by the keen air which 
rushed around his temples 1 And he galloped on, as 
cheery as a boy, shouting at the rabbits as they scuttled 
from under his feet, and laughing at the dottrel as they 
postured and anticked oti the mole hills- ^ 

Bnt when he got through Mildenhall, he began to diink 
how he should get home to Ely. 

The hue and cry would be out against him. The 



Tkt Wake. 187 

ports and ferries to the east of the isle as far south as 
Cambridge would be guarded ; and all the more surely, 
on account of the approaching attack. True, he knew 
many a path and ford which the French could not know 5 
but he feared to trust himself in the labyrinth of fens and 
meres, with a mob of pursuers at his heels. A single 
mistake might pound him among morasses, and force 
him, even if he escaped himself through the reeds, to 
leave the mare behind. And to do that was shame and 
loss intolerable. No. Mare Swallow, for her own sake, 
must do a deed that day. 

He would go south by the Roman roads. He would 
go right round the fens; round Cambridge itself; into 
the western forests. There he could lie hid till some 
friend at Somersham or Earith should ferry him over to 
the western side of the isle. The distance was great ; 
well-nigh fifty miles : but the land was light and sound, 
and the going safe and good. It must be done. It 
should be done. 

He gathered the mare together, as he rose the slope of 
Kennet Heath. She was going steadily and soundly, 
breathing like a sleeping child. His pursuers were two 
miles behind ; black dots among the barrows on Barton 
hill. He had time to rest her ; and trotted on steadily, 
keeping to the uplands, and the* high road, from whence 
he could see far and wide over the land* 

On by Newmarket heath— rnameless and desert then— 



1 88 Hereward 

over smooth chalk turf; through glades of fern and 
thorn ; past barrows where slept the heroes of old times, 
Briton, Roman, Saxon, Dane ; forefathers of his own, 
perhaps, ^mong them. Ay — ^that was the place for a hero 
to sleep in. Not choked in a minster charnel-house, 
amid green damp and droning monks : but out under the 
free sky, with his weapons round him, his horse, his 
dog, the antlers of his game; where he might come 
up out of his barrow on moonlight nights, and stare at 
the fl3dng clouds, and scent the rushing breeze. Ah, that 
he could be buried there : but then Torfrida — ^he should 
like to lie by her. 

He was at the Rech-dyke now : and warily he looked 
eastward, as he led the mare up the steep bank, for 
French scouts between him and the Fens : but none were 
within sight. 

He paused upon the top of that great earth-work 
Dangerous as it was to stop in that exposed height, 
making himself a beacon against the sky, he could not 
but look down, and back, at all which remained of free 
English soil. 

He looked down over SwafFham, Quy, and Water- 
beach, and the rest of the tree-embowered hamlets which 
fringed the fen, green knolls on the shore of a boundless 
sea of pale-blue mist ; and above that sea, to the far 
north, a line of darker blue, which was the sacred isle. 
As the sun sank lower, higher rose the mist ; and the isle 



I 

J 



The Wake. 189 

grew more and more faint, vaporous, dreamy, as fen- 
distances are wont to be. Was it not about to fade away 
in reality; to become a vapour, and a dream, and 
leave him alone, and free % Earls, knights, housecarles, 
monks, seemed all becoming phantoms, fading with their 
fading cause. Was it worth while to fight, to die, for 
them, for an)rthing 1 What was William to him % What 
was England 1 Why play out the lost game to the lastl 
Why not leave all behind, and ride down south — to the 
sea — the free sea, and the wild joys of the Viking's life 1 
And he led the mare down the Rech-dyke, and up again 
on to the down, faltering, stopping, his head sunken on 
his breast, his heart sunken within. 

But Torfrida — Torfrida and the little girl. They at 
least were not phantoms. They could not vanish, could 
not even die — to him. His they were for ever. What 
fiend had been putting boy's dreams into his head % 

And he sprang hastily into the saddle, as one that flees 
from a temptation. " Home, mare ! Home to prison 
again ! We have been out far too long, old lass ! too 
long." 

He held on over the Fleam-dyke : but he feared to 
turn downwards into the Cambridge flats, and kept his 
vantage-ground upon the downs ; till, on the top of the 
Gogmagog, he struck the old Roman road, which men 
call "Wort's Causeway" at this day. Down that he 
turned, short to the right, toward the green meadows, and 



gpo Hereward 

•the long line of mighty elms, and the little village which 
clustered^ unconscious of its comitig glories, beneath the 
new French keep, beside the Roman bridge. 

The setting sun gilded the white flints* of the keep; 
and Hereward looked on them with a curse. But it 
•gilded, too, the tree tops of the great forest beyond ; and j 
Hereward uttered something like a prayer to St Ethel- ' 
dreda and her ladies three. For if he could but reach ! 
that forest, he was safe. ; 

The Wake was, of course, too wise to go through 
Cambridge street, under the eyes of die French garrison. 
But he saw that the Roman road led strait to a hamlet 
some mile above the town ;< and at the road end, he 
guessed, there must be either a bridge or a ford. There 
he could cross the Cam. And he rode slowly downward, 
Jonging.for it to grow dark, and saving the marcj in case 
she should be needed for a sudden nish: • 

And a rush was soon needed. For on the hill behind 
him he saw armour glitter in the red light ; and a brace 
of knightsl * :They paused for a moment ; arid then espied 
him. One galloped down the road toward him';. Ae 
other spurred to the right, strait for Cambridge. 

" I shall have the whole pack of wolves out, ahd on 
me, in half an hour," thought Hereward; and struck 
spurs into the mare. 

Into the ford — by Chaucer^s after-famous mill — he 
dashed, making more splash than ever did geese in Shel- 



The Wake. 19 r 

ford Fen ; and out again, and on to the clay wold, and 
away for Coton and Madingley rise, and the black wall 
of oak, and ash, and e)m. 

And as he entered the forest at Madingley, he rose in 
his stirrups, with a shout of "A Wake! A Wake!" 
which was heard, for aught he cared, in Cambridge 
Castle : and then rode- on leisurely toward the Draytons, 
and the ferry over the Ouse at Holywell; for well 
he knew that they who could not catch The Wake 
in the field, were still less like to catch him in the 
wood 

And so through the forest, by a clear moonlight (says 
the chronicler), he came in the early morning to the Isle 
Somejrsham,. which was then all deep wood, (as the names 
of Woodhurst and Somersham Parks still testify), and 
was ferried over. at Earith by one of his many friends 
into the Isle of Ely. 

And of all those knights that followed hih,. none^ ever 
saw or heard sign of him, save one : and his horse came 
to a standstill in " the aforesaid wood," and he rolled off 
and lay breathless under a tree, looking up at his horse's 
heaving flanks and wagging tail, and wondering how he 
should get out of that place before the Englis*h found 
him and made an end of him. 

Then there came up to him a ragged churl, and asked 
him who he was, and offiered to help him. 

" For the sake of God and courtesy," quoth he, his 



192 Hereward 

French pride being well-nigh beat out of him, " if thou 
hast seen or heard anything of Hereward The Wake, 
good fellow, tell me, and I will repay thee well." 

" As thou hast asked me for the sake of God and of 
courtesy. Sir Knight, I will tell thee. I am The Wake. 
And in token thereof, thou shalt give me thy lance and 
sword, and take instead this sword which I carried oflf 
from the king's Court at Brandon ; and promise me, on 
the faith of a knight, to bear it back to King William ; 
and tell him, that Hereward and he have met at last ; 
and that he had best beware of the day when they shall 
meet again." 

So that knight, not having recovered his wind, was £un 
to submit, and go home a sadder and a wiser man. And 
King William laughed a royal laugh, and commanded his 
knights that they should in no wise harm The Wake, but 
take him alive, and bring him in, and they shoidd have 
great rewards. 

Which seemed to them more easily said than done. 



The Wake. 193 



CHAPTER XII. 

HOW THEY FOUGHT AGAIN AT ALDRETH. 

Hereward came back in fear and trembling after all 
He believed in the magic powers of the witch of Bran- 
don ; and he asked Torfrida, in his simplicity, whether 
she was not cxmning enough to defeat her spells by 
counter spells. 

Torfrida smiled and shook her head. 

" My knight, I have long since given up such vanities. 
Let us not fight evil with evil, but rather with good. 
Better are prayers than charms \ for the former are heard 
in heaven above, and the latter only in the pit below. 
Let me and all the women of Ely go rather in proces- 
sion to St. Etheldreda's well, there above the fort at 
Aldreth, and pray St Etlieldreda to be with us when the 
day shall come; and defend her own isle, and the 
honour of us women who have taken refuge in her holy 
arms." 

So all the women of Ely walked out barefoot to St. 
Etheldreda's well, with Torfiida at their head, clothed in 
sackcloth, and with fetters on her wrists, and waist, and 

VOL. II O 



1 94 Hereward 

ankles; which she vowed, after the strange, sudden, 
earnest fashion of those times, never to take off again till 
she saw the French host flee from Aldreth before the fece 
of St Etheldreda. So they prayed, while Hereward and 
his men worked at the forts below. And when they 
came back, and Torfrida was washing her feet, sore and 
bleeding from her pilgrimage, Hereward came in. 

" You have murdered your poor soft feet, and taken 
nothing thereby, I fear." 

"I have. If I had walked on sharp razors all the 
way, I would have done it gladly, to know what I know 
now. As I prayed I looked out over the fen ; and St 
Etheldreda put a thought into my heart But it is so 
terrible a one, that I fear to tell it to you. And yet it 
seems our only chance." 

Hereward threw himself at her feet, and prayed her to 
tell. At last she spoke, as one half afraid of her own 
words : 

"Will the reeds bum, Hereward?" 

Hereward kissed her feet again and again, calling her 
Ills prophetess, his saviour. 

" Bum ! yes, like tinder, in this March wind, if the 
drought only holds. Pray that the drought may hold, 
Torfrida." 

" There, there, say no more. How hard-hearted war 
makes even us women ! There, help me to take off this 
rough sackcloth, and dress myself again." 



The Wake. 195 

Meanwhile William had moved his army again to 
Cambridge, and on to Willingham-field, and there he 
began to throw up those "globos and montanas," of 
which Leofiic's paraphraser talks, but of which now no 
trace remains. Then he began to rebuild his causeway, 
broader and stronger ; and commanded all the fishermen 
of the Ouse to bring their boats to Cotinglade, and ferry 
over his materials. " Among whom came Hereward in 
a very narrow canoe, with head and beard shaven lest he 
should be known, and worked diligently among the rest 
But the sun did not set that day without mischief; for 
before Hereward went off, he finished his work by setting 
the whole on fire, so that it was all burnt, and some of 
the French killed and drowned." 

And so The Wake went on, with stratagems and am- 
bushes, till "after seven days' continual fighting, they had 
hardly done one da/s work ; save four globos of wood, in 
which they intended to put their artillery. But on the 
eighth day they determined to attack the isle, putting in 
the midst of them that pythoness woman on a high 
place, where she might be safe freely to exercise her art" 

It was* not Hereward alone who had entreated Tor- 
frida to exercise her magic art in their behalf. But she 
•steadily refiised ; and made good Abbot Thurstan support 
her refusal by a strict declaration, that he would have ncT 
£ends' games played in Ely, as long as he was abbot alive 
on lajid, 

o 2 



196 Hereward 

Torfrida, meanwhile, grew utterly wild. Her con- 
science smote her, in spite of her belief that St. Ethel- 
dreda had inspired her, at the terrible resource which she 
had hinted to her husband, and which she knew well he 
woidd carry out with terrible success. Pictures of agony 
and death floated before her eyes, and kept her awake at 
night. She watched long hours in the church in prayer ; 
she fasted ; she disciplined her tender body with sharp 
pains ; she tried, after the fashion of those times, to atone 
for her sin, if sin it was. At last she had worked herself 
up into a religious frenzy. She saw St. Etheldreda in the 
clouds, towering over the isle, menacing the French host 
with her virgin palm-branch. She uttered wild pro- 
phecies of ruin and defeat to the French ; and then, 
when her frenzy collapsed, moaned secretly of ruin and 
defeat hereafter to themselves. But she would be bold ; 
she would play her part; she would encourage the 
heroes who looked to her as one inspired, wiser and 
loftier than themselves. 

And so it befel, that when the men marched down to 
Haddenham that afternoon, Torfrida rode at then: head 
on a white charger, robed from throat to ankle in sack- 
cloth, her fetters clanking on her limbs. But she called 
on the English to see in her the emblem of England 
captive yet unconquered ; and to break her fetters, and the 
worse fetters of every woman in England who was the toy 
and slave of the brutal invaders ; and so fierce a triumph 



The Wake. 197 

sparkled from her wild hawk-eyes that the Englishmen 
looked up to her weird beauty as to that of an inspired 
saint; and when the French came on to the assault 
there stood on the grassy mound behind the English fort 
a figure clothed in sackcloth, barefooted and bareheaded, 
with fetters shining on waist, and wrist, and ankle — ^her 
long black locks streaming in the wind, her long white 
arms stretched cross-wise toward heaven, in imitation of 
Moses of old above the battle with Amalek ; invoking 
St. Etheldreda and all the powers of heaven, and chant- 
ing doom and defiance to the invaders. 

And the English looked on her, and cried : " She is a 
prophetess ! We will surely do some great deed this 
day, or die around her feet like heroes ! " 

And opposite to her, upon the French tower, the old 
hag of Brandon howled and gibbered with filthy gestures, 
calling for the thunderstorm which did not come ; for all 
above the sky was cloudless blue. 

And the Enghsh saw and felt, though they could not 
speak it, dimib nation as they were, the contrast between 
the spirit of cruelty and darkness, and the spirit of 
freedom and light. , 

So strong was the new bridge, that William trusted 
himself upon it on horseback, with Ivo Taillebois at his 
side. 

William doubted the powers of the witch, and felt 
rather ashamed of his new helpmate ; but he was con- 



198 Hereward 

fident in his bridge, and in the heavy artillery which he 
had placed in his four towers. 

Ivo Taillebois was utterly confident in his witch, and 
in the bridge Ukewise. 

William waited for the rising of the tide j and when 
the tide was near its height, he commanded the artillery 
to open, and clear the fort opposite of the English. 
Then with crash and twang, the balistas and catapults 
went off, and great stones and heavy lances hurtled 
through the air. 

" Back ! " shouted Torfrida, raised almost to madness, 
by fasting, self-torture, and religious frenzy. "Out of 
yon fort, every man. Why waste your lives under that 
artillery ? Stand still this day, and see how the saints 
of heaven shall fight for you." 

So utter was the reverence which she commanded for 
the moment, that every man drew back, and crowded 
round her feet outside the fort. 

" The cowards are fleeing already. Let your men go,. 
Sir King ! " shouted Taillebois. 

" On to the assault ! Strike for Normandy I " shouted 
William. 

" I fear much," said he to himself, "that this is some 
stratagem of that Wake's. But conquered they must be." 

The evening breeze curled up the reach. The great 
pike splashed out from the weedy shores, sending the 
whitefish flying in shoals into the low glare of the setting 



The Wake. 199 

sun : and heeded not, stupid things, the barges packed 
with mailed men, which swanned in the reeds on either 
side the bridge, and began to push out into the river. 

The starlings swung in thousands round the reed- 
ronds, looking to settle in their wonted place : but dare 
not j and rose and swung round again, telling each other, 
in their manifold pipings, how all the reed-ronds teemed 
with mailed men. And all above, the sky was cloudless 
blue. 

And then came a trample, a roll of many feet on the 
soft spongy peat, a low murmur which rose into wild 
shouts of " Dex Aie ! " as a human tide poured along the 
causeway, and past the witch of Brandon Heath. 

" Dex^ Aie 1 " quoth William, with a sneer. " Deb- 
bles Aie ! would fit better." 

" If, sire, the powers above would have helped us, we 
should have been happy enough to — But if they will not, 
it is not our fault if we try below," said Ivo Taillebois. 

William laughed. " It is well to have two strings to 
one's bow, sir. Forward, men ! forward ! " shouted he, 
riding out to the bridge-end, under the tower. 

" Forward ! " shouted Ivo Taillebois. 

" Forward ! " shouted the hideous hag overhead. " The 
spirit of the well fights for yoiL" 

" Fight for yourselves," said William. 

There were fifty yards of deep clear water between 
Frenchman and Englishman. Only fifty yards. Not 



200 Hereward 

only the arrows and arblast quarrels, but heavy hand- 
javelins, flew across every moment; every now and. 
then a man toppled forward, and plunged into the blue 
depth among the eels and pike, to find his comrades of the 
summer before ; and then the stream was still once more. 
The coots and water-hens swam in and out of the reeds, 
and wondered what it was all about. The water-lilies 
flapped upon the ripple, as lonely as in the loneliest 
mere. But their floats were soon broken, their white 
cups stained with human gore. Fifty yards of deep 
clear water. And treasure inestimable to win by cross- 
ing it. 

They thrust out balks, canoes, pontoons ; they crawled 
upon them like ants, and thrust out more yet beyond, 
heedless of their comrades, who slipped, and splashed, 
and sank, holding out vain hands to hands too busy to 
seize them. And always the old witch jabbered over- 
head with her cantrips, pointing, mumming, praying for 
the storm ; while all above, the sky was cloudless blue. 

And always on the mound opposite, while darts and 
quarrels whistled round her head, stood Torfrida, point- 
ing with outstretched scornful finger at the stragglers in 
the river, and chanting loudly what the Frenchmen could 
not tell : but it made their hearts, as it was meant to do, 
melt Uke wax within them. 

"They have a counter witch to yours, Ivo, it seems; 
and a fairer one. I am afraid the devils, especially if 



The Wake, 201 

Asmodeus be at hand, are more likely to listen to her 
than to that old broomstick-rider aloft." 

" Fair is, that fair cause has, Sir King." 

"A good argument for honest men, but none for 
fiends. What is the fair fiend pointing at so earnestly 
there % " 

"Somewhat among the reeds. Hark to her now! 
She is singing, somewhat more like an angel than a 
fiend, I will say for her." 

And Torfiida's song, coming clear and sweet across 
the water, rose louder and shriller till it almost drowned 
the jabbering of the witch. 

"She sees more than we do." 

" But I see ! " cried William, smiting his hand upon 
his thigh. "Par le splendeur Dex! She has been 
showing them where to fire the reeds ; and they have 
done it ! " 

A puff of smoke ; a wisp of flame ; and then another 
and another; and a canoe shot out from the reeds 
on the French shore, and glided into the reeds of the 
island. • 

" The reeds are on fire, men ! Have a care," shouted 
Ivo. 

"Silence, fool! Frighten them once, and they will 
leap like sheep into that gulf. Men ! right about ! draw 
off— slowly and in order. We will attack again to- 
morrow." 



202 Hereward 

The cool voice of the great captain arose too late. A 
line of flame was leaping above the reed bed, crackling 
and howling before the evening breeze. The column 
on the causeway had seen their danger but too soon, and 
fled. But whither % 

A shower of arrows, quarrels, javelins, fell upon the 
head of the column as it tried to face about and retreat, 
confusing it more and more. One arrow, shot by no 
common arm, went clean through William's shield, and 
pinned it to the mailed flesh. He could not stifle a cry 
of pain. 

" You are wounded, sire. Ride for your life ! It 
is worth that of a thousand of these churls," and Ivo 
seized William's bridle and dragged him, in spite of 
himself, through the cowering, shrieking, struggling 
crowd. 

On came the flame, leaping and crackling, laughing 
and shrieking, like a live fiend. The archers and sling- 
ers in the boats cowered before it; and fell, scorched 
corpses, as it swept on. It reached the causeway, surged 
up, recoiled from the mass of human beings, then sprang 
over their heads and passed onwards, girding them with 
flame. 

The reeds were burning around them ; the timbers of 
the bridge caught fire ; the peat and faggots smouldered 
beneath their feet. They sprang from the burning foot- 
way, and plimged into the fathomless bog, covering their 



The Wake, 203. 

faces and eyes with scorched hands ; and then sank in 
the black gurgling slime. 

Ivo dragged William on, regardless of curses and 
prayers from his soldiery; and they reached the shore 
just in time to see between them and the water a long 
black smouldering writhing line \ the morass to right 
and left, which had been a minute before deep reed, 
an open smutty pool, dotted with boatsful of shrieking 
^d cursing men ; and at the causeway end the tower, 
with the flame climbing up its posts, and the witch of 
Brandon throwing herself desperately from the top, and 
falling dead upon the embers, a motionless heap of rags. 

" Fool that thou art ! Fool that I was ! " cried the 
great king, as he rolled oif his horse at his tent door, 
cursing with rage and pain. 

Ivo Taillebois sneaked off; sent over to Brandon 
for the second witch ; and hanged her, as some small 
comfort to his soul. Neither did he forget to search the 
cabin, till he found buried in a crock the bits of his own 
gold chain, and various other treasures, for which the 
wretched old women had bartered their souls. All 
which he confiscated to his own use, as a much injured 
man. 

The next day William withdrew his army. The men 
refused to face again that blood-stained pass. The 
English spells, they said, were stronger than theirs, and 
than the daring of brave men. Let William take 



204 Hcreward 

Torfiida and bum her, as she had burned them, with 
reeds out of Willingham fen : then might they try to 
storm Ely again. 

Torfiida saw them turn, flee, die in agony. Her 
work was done ; her passion exhausted ; her self-tortuie, 
and the mere weight of her fetters, which she had 
sustained during her passion, weighed her down; ^e 
dropped senseless on the turf, and lay in a trance for 
many hours. 

Then she arose, and, casting off her fetters and her 
sackcloth, was herself again : but a sadder woman till 
her djong day. 



J 



The Wake, - 205 



CHAPTER XIII. 

HOW KING WILLIAM TOOK COUNSEL OF A CHURCHMAN. 

If Torfrida was exhausted, so was Hereward like- 
wise. He knew well that a repulse was not a defeat. 
He knew well the indomitable persistence, the boundless 
resources, of the master-mind whom he defied ; and he 
knew well that another attempt would be made, and then 
another; till, though it took seven years in the doing — 
Ely would be won at last To hold out doggedly as 
he could was his plan: to obtain the best terms he 
could for his comrades. And he might obtain good 
terms at last William might be glad to pay a fair price 
in order to escape such a thorn in his side as the camp 
of refuge, and might deal — or, at least, promise to deal — 
mercifully and generously with the last remnant of the 
English gentry. For himself, yield he would not : when 
all was over, he would flee to the sea, with Torfrida and 
his own housecarles, and turn viking; or go to Sweyn 
Ulfsson in Denmark, and die a free man. 

The English did not foresee these things. Their hearts 
were lifted up with their victory, and they laughed at 



2o6 Hereward 

William and his French, and drank Torfrida's health 
much too often for their own good. Hereward did not 
care to undeceive them. But he could not help speak- 
ing his mind in the abbot's chamber to Thurstan, 
Egelwin, and his nephews, and to Sigtryg Ranaldsson, 
who was still in Ely, not only because he had promised 
to stay there, but because he could not get out if he 
would. 

Blockaded they were utterly, by land and water. The 
isle furnished a fair supply of food ; and what was want- 
ing, they obtained by foraging. But they had laid the 
land waste for so many miles round, that their plundering 
raids brought them in less than of old ; and if they went 
far, they fell in with the French, and lost good men, 
even though they were generally successful So pro- 
visions were running somewhat short, and would run 
shorter still. 

Moreover, there was a great cause of anxiety. Bishop 
Egelwin, Abbot Thurstan, and the monks of Ely were in 
rebellion, not only against King William, but more or 
less against the Pope of Rome. They might be excom- 
municated. The minster lands might be taken away. 

Bishop Egelwin set his face like a flint He expected 
no mercy. AU he had ever done for the French was to 
warn Robert Comyn that if he stayed in Durham, evil 
would befall .him. But that was as little worth to him 
■as it was to the said Robert And no mercy he cx^ved. 



Tlie Wake, 207 

The less a man had, the more fit he was for heaven. 
He could but die ; and that he had known ever since he 
was a chanter-boy. Whether he died in Ely, or in 
prison, mattered little to him, provided they did not 
refuse him the sacraments ; and that they would hardly 
do. But call the Duke of Normandy his rightful 
sovereign he would not, because he was not — nor any- 
body else just now, as far as he could see. 

Valiant likewise was Abbot Thurstan, for himself. 
But he had — ^unlike Bishop Egelwin, whose diocese had 
been given to a Frenchman — an abbey, monks, and 
broad lands, whereof he was father and steward. And 
he must do what was best for the abbey, and also what 
the monks would let him do. For severe as was the 
•discipline of a minster in time of peace, yet in time ot 
war, when life and death were in question, monks had 
ere now turned valiant from very fear, like Cato's mouse, 
and mutinied : and so might the monks of Ely. 

And Edwin and Morcar? 

No man knows what they said or thought ; perhaps no 
man cared much, even in their own days. No hint does 
any chronicler give ot what manner of men they were, 
or what manner of deeds they did. Fair, gentle, noble, 
beloved even by William, they arr mere names, and 
nothing more, in history; and it is to be supposed, 
therefore, that they were nothing more in fact. The 
race of Leofric and Godiva had worn itself out. 



3o8 Hereward 

One night the confederates had sat late, talking over 
the future more earnestly than usual. Edwin, usually 
sad enough, was especially sad that night. 

Hereward jested with him, tried to cheer him : but he 
was silent, would not drink, and went away before the 
rest. 

The next morning he was gone, and with him half-a- 
dozen of his private housecarles. 

Hereward was terrified. If defections once began, 
they would be endless. The camp would fall to pieces, 
and every man among them would be hanged, mutilated, 
or imprisoned, one by one, helplessly. They must stand 
or fall together. 

He went raging to Morcar. Morcar knew nought of 
it. On the faith and honour of a knight, he knew 
nought Only his brother had said to him a day or two 
before, that he must see his betrothed before he died. 

" He is gone to William, then 1 Does he think to win 
her now — an outcast and a beggar — ^when he was refused 
her with broad lands and a thousand men at his back % 
Fool ! See that thou play not the fool likewise, nephew, 
or— 

" Or what?" said Morcar, defiantly. 

" Or thou wilt go, whither Edwin is gone— to betrayal 
and ruin." 

*^Why sol He has been kind enough to Waltheot 
and Gospatric, why not to Edwin 1 " 



The Wake. Z09. 

" Because," laughed Hereward, " he wanted Waltheof, 
and he does not want you and Edwin. He can keep 
Mercia quiet without your help. Northumbria and the 
Fens he cannot without Waltheof 's. They are a rougher 
set as you go east and north, as you should know already ; 
and must have one of themselves over them to keep 
them in good humour for awhile. When he has used 
Waltheof as his stalking-horse long enough to build a 
castle every ten miles, he will throw him away like a 
worn bowstring. Earl Morcar, nephew mine." 
Morcar shook his head. 

In a week more he was gone likewise. He came to 
William at Brandon. 

" You are come in at last, young earll" said William, 
sternly. " You are come too late." 

" I throw myself on your knightly faith," said Morcar. 
But he had come in an angry and unlucky hour. 

" How well have you kept your own, twice a rebel, 
that you should appeal to mine 1 Take him away." 
"And hang him?" asked Ivo Taillebois. 
" Pish ! No — thou old butcher. Put him in irons, 
and send him into Normandy." 

" Send him to Roger de Beaumont, sire. Roger's son 
is safe in Morcar's castle at Warwick, so it is but fair 
that Morcar should be safe in Roger's." 
And to Roger de Beaumont he was sent while young 

VOL. II. p 



3IO Hereward 

Roger was Lord of Warwick, and all around that once 
was Leofric and Godiva's. 

Morcar lay in a Norman keep till the day of William's 
death. On his death-bed the tyrant's heart smote him, 
and he sent orders to release him. For a few short days, 
or hours, he breathed free air again. Then Rufus shut 
him up once more, and for ever. 

And that was the end of Earl Morcar. 

A few weeks after, three men came to the camp at 
Brandon, and they brought a head to the king. And 
when William looked upon it, it was the head of Edwin. 

The human heart must have burst up again in the 
tyrant, as he looked on the fair face of him he had so 
loved, and so wronged ; for they say he wept. 

The knights and earls stood round, amazed and awed, 
as they saw iron tears run down Pluto's cheek. 

"How came this here, knaves?" thundered he at last 

They told a rambling story, how Edwin always would 
needs go to Winchester, to see the queen, for she would 
stand his friend, and do him right. And how they could 
not get to Winchester, for fear of the French, and 
wandered in woods and wolds ; and how they were set 
upon, and hunted ; and how Edwin still was mad to go 
to Winchester : but when he could not, he would go to 
Blethwallon and his Welsh; and how Earl Randal of 
Chester set upon them; and how. they got between a 
stream and the tide-way of the Dee, and were cut off. 



The Wake. 211 

And how Edwin would not yield. And how then they 
slew him in self-defence, and Randal let them bring the 
head to the king. 

This, or something like it, wa3 their stoiy. But who 
could believe traitors? Where Edwin wandered, what 
he did during those months, no man knows. All that is 
known is, three men brought his head to William, and 
told §ome such tale. And so the old nobility of England 
died up and down the ruts and shaughs, like wounded 
birds ; and, as of wounded birds, none knew or cared 
how far they had run, or how their broken bones had 
ached before they died. 

" Out of their own mouths they are condemned, says 
Holy Writ," thundered William. " Hang them on high." 

And hanged on high they were, on Brandon heath. 

Then the king turned on his courtiers, glad to ease his 
own conscience by cursing them. 

" This is your doing, sirs ! If I had not listened to 
your base counsels, Edwin might have been now my 
faithful liegeman and my son-in-law ; and I had had one 
more Englishman left in peace, and one sin less upon 
my soul." 

"^And one] thorn less in thy side," quoth Ivo 
Taillebois. 

"Who spoke to thee? Ralph Guader, thou gavest 
me the counsel : thou wilt answer it to God and his 
saints." 

p 2 



212 Hereward 

"That did I not. It was Earl Roger, because he 
wanted the man's Shropshire lands." 

Whereon high words ensued ; and the king gave the 
earl the lie in his teeth, which the earl did not forget 

" I think," said the rough shrewd voice of Ivo, " that 
instead of crying over spilt milk, — for milk the lad was, 
and never would have grown to good beef, had he lived 
to my age " 

" Who spoke to thee 1 " 

"No man, and for that reason I spoke myself. I 
have lands in Spalding, by your Royal grace ; and wish 
to enjoy them in peace, having worked for them hard 
enough — ^and how can I do that, as long as Hereward 
sits in Ely 1 " 

" Splendeur Dex ! " said William, " thou art right, old 
butcher." 

So they laid their heads together to slay Hereward. 
And after they had talked awhile, then spoke William's 
chaplain for the nonce, an Italian, a friend and pupil of 
Lanfranc of Pavia, an Italian also, then Archbishop of 
Canterbury, scourging and imprisoning English monks 
in the south. And he spoke like an Italian of those 
times, who knew the ways of Rome. 

" If his majesty will allow my humility to suggest ^*' 

"What? Thy humility is proud enough under the 
rose, I will warrant : but it has a Roman wit under the 
rose likewise. Speak ! " 



The Wake. 213 

" That when the secular and carnal arm has failed, as 
it is written • — He poureth contempt upon princes, and 
letteth them wander out of the way in the wilderness, or 
fens ; — for the Latin word, and I doubt not the Hebrew, 
has both meanings." 

" Splendeur Dex I " cried William, bitterly; "that hath 
he done with a vengeance ! Thou art right so far, 
Clerk ! " 

" Yet helpeth He the poor, videlicet, his church and 
the religious, who are vowed to holy poverty, out of 
misery, videlicet, the oppression of barbarous customs ; 
and maketh them households like a flock of sheep." 

" They do that for themselves already, here in 
England," said William, with a sneer at the fancied 
morals of the English monks and clergy, t 

"But Heaven and the Church do it for the true 



• I do not laugh at Holy Scripture myself, I only insert this as 
a specimen of the usual mediaeval " cant " — a name and a practice 
wliich are both derived, not from Puritans, but from monks. 

+ The alleged profligacy and sensuality of the English Church 
before the Conquest, rests merely on a few violent and vague expres- 
sions of the Norman monks who displaced them. No facts, as far 
as I can find, have ever been alleged. And without facts on the 
other side, an impartial man will hold by the one fact which is 
certain, that the Church of England, popish as it was, was, unfor- 
tunately for it, not popish enough ; and from its insular freedom, 
obnoxious to the Church of Rome, and the ultramontane clergy of 
Normandy ; and was therefore to be believed capable — and therefore 
again accused— of any and every crime. 



2 14 Hereward 

poor, whom your majesty is bringing in, to your endless 
glory." 

" But what has all this to do with taking Ely?" asked 
William impatiently. " I asked thee for reason, and not 
sermons." 

" This. That it is in the power of the Holy Father— 
and that power he would doubtless allow you, as his 
dear son and most faithful servant, to employ for yourself, 
without sending to Rome, which might cause painful 
delays — to — — " 

It might seem strange that William, Taillebois, Picot, 
Guader, Warrenne, short-spoken, hard-headed, hard- 
swearing warriors, could allow complacently a smooth 
churchman to dawdle on thus, counting his periods on 
his fingers, and seemingly never coming to the point. 

But they knew well, that the churchman was a far 
cunninger, as well as a more learned, man than them- 
selves. They knew well that they could not hurry him ; 
ahd that they need not ; that he would make his point at 
last, hunting it out step by step, and letting them see how 
he got thither, like a practised hound. They knew that 
if he spoke, he had thought long and craftily, till he had 
made up his mind ; and that therefore he would very 
probably make up their minds likewise. It was the 
conquest — not of a heavenly spirit, though it boasted 
itself such — ^but of a cultivated mind, over brute flesh. 

They might have said all this aloud, and yet the 



The Wake. 215 

churchman would have gone on, as he did, where he left 
off, with unaltered blandness of tone. 

" To convert to other uses the goods of the Church. 
To convert them to profane uses would, I need not say, 
be a sacrilege as horrible to heaven, as impossible to so 
pious a monarch " 

Ivo Taillebois winced. He had just stolen a manor 
from the monks of Crowland, and meant to keep it 

" To convert, I say, church lands belonging to abbeys 
or sees, whose abbots or bishops are contumaciously dis- 
obedient to the Holy See, or to their lawful monarch, he 
being in the communion of the Church and at peace with 
the said Holy See. If therefore, to come to that point at 
which my incapacity, through the devious windings of my 
simplicity, has been tending, but with halting steps, from 
the moment that your majesty deigned to hear " 

" Put in the spur, man ! " said Ivo, tired at last, " and 
run the deer to soil." 

" Hurry no man's cattle, especially thine own," an- 
swered the churchman, with so shrewd a wink, and so 
cheery a voice, that Ivo, when he recovered from his 
surprise, cried : 

"Why, thou art a good huntsman thyself, I believe 
now." 

"All things to all men, if by any means — But to 
return. If your majesty should think fit to proclaim to 
the recalcitrants of Ely, that unless they submit them- 



2i6 Hereward 

selves to your royal grace — and to that, of course, of His 
Holiness our Father — ^within a certain day, you will 
convert to other uses — premising, to avoid scandal, that 
those uses shall be for the benefit of Holy Church — ^all 
lands and manors of theirs lying without the precincts of 
the isle of Ely — those lands being, as is known, large and 
of great value — Quid plura % Why burden your exalted 
intellect by detailing to you consequences which it has 
long ere now foreseen % " 

******" quoth William, who was nearly as sharp as 
the Italian, and had seen it all. '' I will make thee a 
bishop ! " 

" Spare to burden my weakness," said the chaplain ; 
and slipt away into the shade. 

" You will take his advice ? " asked Ivo. 

« I wiU." 

" Then I shall see that Torfrida bum at last" 

" Bum her % " and William swore. 

" I promised my soldiers to bum the witch with reeds 
out of Haddenham fen, as she had bumed them ; and I 
must keep my knightly word." 

William swore yet more. Ivo Taillebois was a butcher 
and a churL 

" Call me not churl and butcher too often, Lord King, 
ere thou hast found whether thou needest me or not. 
Rough I may be, false was I never." 

"That thou wert not," said William, who needed 



The Wake, 217 

Taillebois much, and feared him somewhat ; and re- 
marked something meaning in his voice, which made him 
calm himself, diplomat as he was, instantly. " But bum 
Torfrida thou shalt not" 

" Well, I care not. I have seen a woman burnt ere 
now, and had no fancy for the screeching. Beside, they 
say she is a very fair dame — and has a fair daughter, too, 
coming on — and she may very well make a wife for a 
Frenchman." 

" Marry her thyself." 

« I shall have to kill this Wake first." 

" Then do it, and I will give thee his lands." 

" I may have to kill others before The Wake." 

" You may 1" 

And so the matter dropped. But William caught Ivo 
alone after an hour, and asked him what he meant 

" No pay, no play. Lord King, I have served thee 
well, rough and smooth." 

" Thou hast, and hast been well paid. But if I have 
said aught hasty " 

" Pish, King. I am a plain-spoken man, and like a 
plain-spoken master. But instead of marrying Torfrida 
or her daughter, I have more mind to her niece, who is 
younger, and has no Hereward to be killed first" 

"Her niece 1 Who?" 

"Lucia as we call her, Edwin and Morcar's sister, 
Hereward's niece, Torfrida's niece." 



2iS Hereward 

"No pay, no play, saidst thoul — so say I. What 
meant you by having to kill others before Hereward ] " 

" Beware of Waltheof," said Ivo. 

" Waltheofi iPish. This is one of thy inventions for 
making me hunt every Englishman to death, that thou 
mayest gnaw their bones." 

"Is iti Then this I say more. Beware of Ralph 
Guader." 

" Pish ! " 

" Pish on, Lord King." Etiquette was not yet disco- 
vered by Norman barons and earls, who thought them- 
selves all but as good as their king ; gave him their advice 
when they thought fit : and if he did not take it attacked 
him with all their meinie. " Pish on, but listen. Beware 
of Roger." 

" And what more 1 " 

" And give me Lucia. I want her. I will have her." 

William laughed. " Thou of all men ? To mix that 
ditch-water with that wine 1 " 

"They were mixed in thy blood, Lord King; and 
thou art the better man for it, so says the world. 
Old wine and old blood throw any lees to the bottom 
of the cask ; and we] shall have a son worthy to ride 
behind " 

" Take care ! " quoth William. 

" The greatest Captain upon earth." 

William laughed again, like Odin's selfl 



The Wake, 219 

" Thou shalt have Lucia, for that word." 
" And thou shalt have the plot ere it breaks. As it 
will" 

" To this have I come at last," said William to him- 
self. " To murder these English nobles ; to many their 
daughters to my grooms. Heaven forgive me ! They 
have brought it upon themselves, by contumacy to Holy 
Church. Call my secretary, some one." . 
The Italian re-entered. 

"The valiant and honourable and illustrious knight, 
Ivo Taillebois, Lord of Holland and Kesteven, weds 
Lucia, sister of the late earls Edwin and Morcar, now 
with the queen ; and with her, her manors. You will 
prepare the papers." 
" I am yours to death," said Ivo. 
" To do thee justice, I think thou wert that already. 
Stay — here — Sir Priest — do you know any man who 
knows this Torfrida 1 " 

" I do. King," said Ivo. " There is one Sir Ascelin, 
a man of Gilbert's, in the camp." 
" Send for him." 

" This Torfrida," said William, " haunts me." 
" Pray heaven she have not bewitched your Grace." 
" Tut, I am too old a campaigner to take much harm 
by woman's sharpshooting, at fifteen score yards off, 
beside a deep stream between. No. The woman has 
courage — and beauty .too, you say \ " 



.220 Hereward 

• 

"What of that, oh Prince?" said the Italian. "Who 
more beautiful — if report be true — ^than those lost women 
who dance nightly in the forests with Venus and Hero- 
dias — as it may be this Torfrida has done many a time 1 " 

" You priests are apt to be hard upon poor women." 

" The fox found that the grapes were sour," said the 
Italian, laughing at himself and his cloth — or at anything 
else, by which he could curry favour. 

"And this woman was no vulgar witch. That sort 
of personage suits Taillebois' taste, rather than Here- 
ward's." 

" Hungry dogs eat dirty pudding," said Ivo pertinently. 

" The woman believed herself in the right. She be- 
lieved that the saints of heaven were on her side. I saw 
it in her attitude, in her gestures. Perhaps she was 
right." 

" Sire 1" said both bystanders in astonishment. 

" I would fain see that woman ; and see her husband 
too. They are folks after my own heart. I would give 
them an earldom to win them." 

" I hope that in that day you will allow your faithful 
servant Ivo to retire to his ancestral manors in Anjou ; 
for England will be too hot for him. Sire, you know not 
this man — ^a liar, a bully, a robber, a swash-buckling 

ruflSan, who ^** and Ivo ran on with furious invective, 

after the fashion of the Normans, who considered no 
name too bad for an English rebel. 



The Wake, 221 

"Sir Ascelin," said William, as Ascelin came in, " you 
know Hereward ] " 

Ascelin bowed assent 

" Are these things true which Ivo alleges?" 

" The Lord Taillebois may know best what manner of 
man Sir Hereward has become since he himself came 
into this English air, which changes some folks mightily," 
with a hardly disguised sneer at Ivo ; " but in Flan- 
ders he was a very perfect knight, beloved and honoured 
of all men, and especially of your father-in-law, the great 
marquis." 

" He is a friend of yours, then ? " 

" No man less. I owe him more than one grudge, 
though all in fair quarrel ; and one at least, which can 
only be wiped out in blood." 

"Ehl What!" 

Ascelin hesitated. 

" Tell me, sir ! " thundered William, " unless you have 
aught to be ashamed of." 

" It is no shame, as far as I know, to confess that I 
was once a suitor, as were all knights for miles round, for 
the hand of the once peerless Torfrida. And no shame 
to confess, that when Hereward knew thereof, he sought 
me out at a tournament, and served me as hiS has served 
many a better man before and since." 

" Over thy horse's croup, eh ]" said William. 

" I am not a bad horseman, as all know, Lord King. 



222 Hereward 

But heaven save me, and all I love, from that Hereward. 
They say he has seven men's strength, and I verily can 
testify to the truth thereof." 

"That may be by enchantment," interposed the 
Italian. 

" True, Sir Priest. This I know, that he wears en- 
chanted armour, which Torfrida gave him before she 
married him." 

" Enchantments again," said the secretary. 

" Tell me now about Torfrida," said William. 

Ascelin told him all about her, not forgetting to say — 
what, according to the chronicler, was a common report 
— that she had compassed Hereward's love by magic 
arts. She used to practise sorcery, he said, with her 
sorceress mistress, Richilda of Hainault. All men knew 
it. Amoul, Richilda's son, was as a brother to her. And 
after old Baldwin died, and Baldwin of Mons and 
Richilda came to Bruges, Torfrida was always with her, 
while Hereward was at the wars. 

" The woman is a manifest and notorious witch," said 
the secretary. 

" It seems so indeed," said William, with something 
like a sigh. And so were Torfrida's early follies visited 
On her ; as all early follies are. " But Hereward, you 
say, is a good knight and true % " 

" Doubtless. Even when he. committed that great 
crime at Peterborough " 



The Wake. 225 

" For which he and all his are duly excommunicated 
by the Bishop," said the secretary. 

"He did a very courteous and honourable thing." 
And Ascelin told how he had saved Alftruda, and 
instead of putting her to ransom, had sent her safe to 
Gilbert. 

"A very knightly deed. He should be rewarded 
for it." 

" Why not bum the witch, and reward him with 
Alftruda instead, since your majesty is in so gracious a 
humour 1 " said Ivo. 

" Alftruda \ Who is she % Ay, I recollect her. Young 
Dolfin's wife. Why, she has a husband already." 

"Ay, but his Holiness at Rome can set that right. 
What is there that he cannot do 1" 

"There are limits, I fear, even to his power. Eh, 
priest % " 

" What his Holiness* powers as the viceroy of Divinity 
on earth might be, did he so choose, it were irreverent 
to inquire. But as he condescends to use that power 
only for the good of mankind, he condescends, like 
Divinity, to be bound by the very laws which he has 
promulgated for the benefit of his subjects ; and to make 
himself only a life-giving sun, when he might be a 
destructive thunderbolt." 

" He is very kind, and we all owe him thanks," said 
Ivo, who had a confused notion that the Pope might 



L 



224 Hereward 

strike him dead with lightning, but was good-natured 
enough not to do so. " Still, he might think of this 
plan; for they say that the lady is an old friend of 
Hereward's, and not over fond of her Scotch husband." 

" That I know well,*' said William. 

"And beside — ^if aught untoward should happen to 
Dolfin and his kin " 

" She might, with her broad lands, be a fine bait for 
Hereward. I see. Now, do this, by my command. 
Send a trusty monk into Ely. Let him tell the monks that 
we have determined to seize all their outlying lands, 
unless they surrender within the week. And let him 
tell Hereward, by the faith and oath of William of 
Normandy, that if he will siurender himself to my grace, 
he shall have his lands in Bourne, and a free pardon for 
himself and all his comrades." 

The men assented, much against their will, and went 
out on their errand. 

" You have played me a scurvy trick, sir," said Ascelin 
to Ivo, " in advising the king to give the Lady Alftruda 
to Hereward." 

" What ! Did you want her yourself? On my honour 
I knew not of it But have patience. You shall have 
her yet, and all her lands, if you will hear my counsel, 
and keep it." 

" But you would give her to Hereward ! " 

" And to you too. It is a poor bait, say these frogs 



The Wake. 225 

of fenmen, that will not take two pike running. Listen 
to me. I must kill this accursed fox of a Wake. I hate 
him. I cannot eat my meat for thinking of him. Kill 
him I must" 

"And so must I." 

"Then we are both agreed. Let us work together, 
and never mind if one's blood be old and the other's 
new. I am neither fool nor weakly, as thou knowest." 

Ascelin could not but assent 

"Then here. We must send the King's message. 
But we must add to it" 

" That is dangerous." 

" So is war ; so is eating, drinking ; so is everything. 
But we must not let The Wake come in. We must drive 
him to despair. Make the messenger add but one word 
— that the king exempts from the amnesty Torfrida, on 

account of You can put it into more scholarly shape 

than I can." 

" On account of her abominable and notorious 
sorceries ; and demands that she shall be given up forth- 
with, to be judged as she deserves." 

"Just so. And then for a load of reeds out of Had- 
denham fen I " 

"Heaven forbid!" said Ascelin, who had loved her 
once. " Would not perpetual imprisonment suffice 1 " 

" What care 1 1 That is the King's affair, not ours. 
But I fear we shall not get her. Even so Hereward will 

VOL. II. Q 



2i6 ' Hereward 

iiee with her — ^maybe escape to Flanders or Denmark. 
He can escape through a rat's hole if he will. However, 
then we are at peace. I had sooner kill him and have 
done with it : but out of the way he must be put." 

So they sent a monk in with the message; and com- 
manded him to tell the article about the Lady Torfiida, 
not only to Hereward, but to the abbot and all the 
monks. 

A curt and fierce answer came back, not froin Here- 
ward, but from Torfiida herselif — that William of 
Normandy was no knight himself, or he would not offer 
a knight his life, on condition of burning his lady. 

William swore horribly. "What is all this about?" 
They told him — as much as they chose to tell him. He 
was very wroth. " Who was Ivo Taillebois, to add to 
his message? He had said that Torfiida should not 
bum." Taillebois was stout ; for he had won the secre- 
tary over to his side meanwhile. He had said nothing 
•about burning. He had merely supplied an oversight 
of the King's. The woman, as the secretary knew, could 
not, with all deference to his majesty, be included in an 
amnesty. She was liable to ecclesiastical censure, and 
the ecclesiastical courts. 

"Ecclesiastical courts? What is this new doctrine, 
Churchman ? " asked William. 

" The superstition of sorcery, my Lord King, is neither 
more nor less than that of heresy itself; seeing that the 



The Wake. 227 

•demons whom it invokes are none other than the old 
Pagan gods : and as heresy ^^ 

William exploded with fearful oaths. He was always 
jealous (and wisely), for his own prerogatives. And the 
doctrine was novel, at least in England. Witches were 
here considered as offenders against the private person 
enchanted, rather thah against the Church \ and execu- 
tions for witchcraft rarely, if ever, took place, imless when 
the witch was supposed to have injured life or property. 

"Have I not given you Churchmen enough already, 
that you must assume my King's power of life and death f 
Do I not slay and torment enough, heaven forgive me I 
without needing you to help me % " 

The Italian saw that he had gone too far. " Heaven 
forbid," he said, " that the Church should stain her hands 
with the blood of the worst of sinners. All she could 
'do was, having proved guilt, to deliver the offender over 
(to the secular arm, doubtless with merciful entreaties 
that there might be no sheddiiig of blood." 

"There is none, I presume, when folks are burned 
:alive," quoth William, with a sneer. " So you are to be 
the judges, and me your executioner, eh 1 An honourable 
office, truly. Beware, Sir Clerk ! Beware 1 " 

" If the fire of my zeal has for a moment too rashly 
anelted the ice of my modesty ^*' 

" Of thy craft, say " 

•** My humility humbly entreats forgiveness. I do not 

Q2 



.'228 • Hereward 

press the matter. Only it seemed — it seemed at least to 
me, that after the slight scandal — ^forgive my fidelity the 
word — to the faithfiil caused by your highness's unhappy 
employment of the witch of Brandon ^" 

William cursed under his breath. 

"Your highness might nobly atone therefore, by 
executing justice on a far more flagitious offender, who 
has openly compassed and effected the death of hundreds 
of your highnesses otherwise invincible warriors "^ 

"And throw good money after bad," said William, 
laughing. " I tell thee, priest, she is too pretty to burn, 
were she the Witch of Endor herself." 

" Be it so. Your royal clemency can always remit her 
sentence, even so far as to pardon her entirely, if your 
merciful temper should so incline you. But meanwhile, 
what better could we have done, than to remind the 
monks of Ely that she was a sorceress ; that she had 
committed grave crimes, and was liable to punishment 
herself, and they to punishment also, as her . shelterers 
and accomplices % " 

" What your highness wanted," quoth Taillebois, "was 
to bring over the monks; and I believe that message 
had been a good stroke toward that. As for Hereward, 
you need not think of him. He never will come in 
alive. He has sworn an oath, and he will keep it.** 

And so the matter ended. 



The Wake. 229- 



CHAPTER XIV. 

• HOW THE MONKS OF ELY DID AFTER THEIR KIND. 

William's bolt, or rather inextinguishable Greek fire, 
could not have fallen into Ely at a more propitious 
moment. 

Hereward was away, with a large body of men, and 
many ships, foraging in the north-eastern fens. He 
might not be back for a week. 

Abbot Thurstan — for what cause is not said — had lost 
heart a little while before, and fled to '^ Angerhale, taking 
with him the ornaments and treasure of the church." 

Hereward had discovered his flight with deadly fear : 
but provisions he must have, and forth he must go, leav- 
ing Ely in charge of half-a-dozen independent English 
gentlemen, each of whom would needs have his own 
way, just because it was his own. 

Only Torfrida he took, and put her hand into the hand 
of Sigtryg Ranaldsson, and said, " Thou true comrade 
and perfect knight, as I did by thy wife, do thou by 
mine, if aught befal." 

And Sigtryg swore first by the white Christ, and then 
by the head of Sleipnir, Odin's horse, that he would 



230 Hereward 

stand by Torfrida till the last ; and then, if need was, 
slay her. 

"You will not need, King Sigtryg. I can slay my- 
self," said she, as she took the Ost-Dane's hard honest 
hand. 

And Hereward went, seemingly by Mepal or Sutton* 
Then came the message ; and all men in Ely knew it. 

Torfrida stormed down to the monks, in honest indig- 
nation, to demand that they should send to William, and 
purge her of the calumny. She found the Chapter-door 
barred and bolted. They were all gabbling inside, like 
starlings on a foggy morning, and would not let her in. 
She hurried back to Sigtryg, fearing treason, and foresee- 
ing the effect of the message upon the monks. 

. But what could Sigtryg do ? To find out their coun- 
sels was impossible for him, or any man in Ely. For the 
monks could talk Latin, and tlie men could not Tor- 
frida alone knew the sacred tongue. 

If Torfrida could but listen at the keyhole. Well — ^all 
was fair in war. And to the Chapter-house door she 
went, guarded by Sigtryg and some of his housecarles ; 
and listened, with a beating heart. She heard words now 
incomprehensible. That men who most of them lived 
no better than their own serfs; who could have no 
amount of wealth, not even the hope of leaving that 
wealth to their children — that such men should cling to 
wealth ; struggle, forge, lie, do anything for wealth, to 



The Wake^ 231 

be used almost entirely not for themselves, but for the 
honour and glory of the convent — ^indicates an intensity 
of corporate feeling, tmknown in the outer world then, 
or now. 

The monastery would be ruined. Without this manor,, 
without that wood, without that stone quarry, that fishery, 
— ^what would become of them % 

But mingled with those words were other words, un- 
fortunately more intelligible to this day — those of super- 
stition. 

What would St Ethelreda say % What St. Sexburga^ 
St Withbuiga, St Ermenilda % How dare they provoke 
their wrath \ Would they submit to lose their lands 1 They 
might do — ^what might they not do \ Their bones would 
refuse ever to work a miracle again. They had been but 
too slack in miracle-working for many years. They might 
strike the isle with barrenness, the minster with lightning. 
They might send a flood up the fens. They might 

William the Norman, to do them justice, those valiant 
monks feared not ; for he was man, and could but kill 
the body. But St. Ethelreda, a virgin goddess, with her 
three maidens, and indeed, all the host of heaven to back 
her — ^might she not, by intercession with powers still 
higher than her own, destroy both body and soul in hell ? 

"We are betrayed. They are going to send for the 
Abbot jfrom Angerhale," said Torfrida at last, reeling from 
the door. " All is lost." 



> 



232 Hereward 

" Shall we burst open the door and kill them all 1 " 
asked Sigtryg, simply. 

" No, King — no. They are God's men ; and we have 
blood enough on our souls.** 

" We can keep the gates, lest any go out to the King.** 

" Impossible. They know the isle better than we, and 
have a thousand arts.*' 

So all they could do, was to wait in fear and trembling 
for Hereward*s return, and send Martin Lightfoot off to 
warn him, wherever he might be. 

The monks remained perfectly quiet. The organ 
droned, the chants wailed, as usual ; notiiing interrupted 
the stated order of the services ; and in the hall, each 
day, they met the knights as cheerfully as ever. Greed 
and superstition had made cowards of them — ^and now 
traitors. 

It was whispered that Abbot Thurstan had returned to 
the minster : but no man saw him : and so three or four 
days went on. 

Martin found Hereward after incredible labours, and 
told him all, clearly and shrewdly. The mah*s manifest 
insanity only seemed to quicken his wit, and increase his 
powers of bodily endurance. 

Hereward was already on his way home ; and never 
did he and his good men row harder than they rowed 
that day back to Sutton. He landed, and hurried on 
with half his men, leaving the rest to disembark the 



The Wake, 233 

booty. Hef was anxious as to the temper of the monks. 
He foresaw aU that Torfrida had foreseen. And as for 
Torfrida herself, he was half mad. Ivo Taillebois' addi- 
tion to William's message had had its due effect. He 
vowed even deadlier hate against the Frenchman than he 
had ever felt before. He ascended the heights to Sutton. 
It was his shortest way to Ely. He could not see 
Aldreth from thence : but he could see Willingham field, 
and Belsar's hills, round the comer of Haddenham Hill. 

The sun was setting long before they reached Ely : 
but just as he sank into the western fen, Winter stopped, 
pointing. — ^Was that the flash of arms ? There, far away, 
just below Willingham town. Or was it the setting sun 
upon the ripple of some long water 1 

" There is not wind enough for such a ripple,*' said 
one. But ere they could satisfy themselves, the sun was 
down, and all the fen was gray. 

Hereward was still more uneasy. If that had been 
the flash of arms, it must have come off a very large 
body of men, moving in column, on the road between 
Cambridge and Ely. He hastened on his men. But ere 
they were within sight of the minster-tower, they were 
aware of a horse galloping violently towards them 
through the dusk. Hereward called a halt. He heard 
his own heart beat as he stopped. The horse was pulled 
up short among them. On its back was a lad, with a 
spialler boy behind him, clasping his waist 



234 Hereward 

" Hereward 1 Thank God, I am in time ! And the 
child is safe too. Thanks, thanks, dear saints ! " a voice 
sobbed out. 

It was the voice of Torfrida. 

" Treason ! " she gasped. 

« I knew it." 

"The French are in the island. They have got 
Aldreth. The whole army is marching from Cambridge. 
The whole fleet is coming up from Southrey. And you 
have time '* 

" To bum Ely over the monks' heads. Men ! Get 
bogwood out of yon cottage, make yourselves torches, 
and onward ! " 

Then rose a babel of questions, which Torfrida an- 
swered as she could. But she had nothing to tell. 
" Clerks' cunning,*' she said bitterly, " was an overmatch 
for woman's wit." She had sent out a spy : but he had 
not returned till an hour since. Then he came back 
breathless, with the news that the French army was on 
the march from Cambridge, and that, as he came over the 
water at Aldreth, he found a party of French knights in 
the fort on the Ely side, talking peaceably with the 
monks on guard. 

She had run up to the borough hill — which men call 
Cherry Hill at this day — ^and one look to the north-east 
had shown her the river swarming with ships. She had 
rushed home, put boys' clothes on herself smd her child, 



The Wake, 235^ 

lud a few jewels in her bosom, saddled Swallow, and 
ridden for her life thither, 

"And King Sigtryg?" 

He and his men had gone desperately out towards 
Haddenham, with what English they could muster : but 
all were in confusion. Some were getting the women and 
children into boats, to hide them in the reeds ; others bat- 
tering the minster gates, vowing vengeance on the monks. 

" Then Sigtryg will be cut off ! Alas for the day that 
ever brought his brave heart hither ! " 

And when the men heard that, a yell of fury and 
despair burst from all throats. 

Should they go back to their boats % 

" No ! onward," cried Hereward. " Revenge first, and 
safety after. Let us leave nothing for the accursed 
Frenchmen but smoking ruins, and then gather our 
comrades, and cut our way back to the north." 

" Good counsel," cried Winter. " We know the roads, 
and they do not ; and in such a dark night as is coming, 
we can march out of the island without their being able 
to follow us a mile." 

"Riey hurried on : but stopped once more, at the 
galloping of another horse. 

"Who comes, friend or foe \ " 

"Alwyn, son of Orgar I" cried a voice under breath, 
" Don*t make such a noise, men I The French are within 
half a mile of you." 



236 Hereward 

" Then one traitor monk shall die ere I retreat," cried 
Hereward, seizing him by the throat 

" For heaven's sake, hold ! ** cried Torfrida, seizing his 
arm. " You know not what he may have to say." 

** I am no traitor, Hereward ; I have fought by your 
side as well as the best ; and if any but you had called 
Alwyn " 

" A curse on your boasting. Tell us the tfuth." 

"The Abbot has made peace with the King. He 
would give up the island, and St. Ethelreda should keep 
all her lands and honours. I said what I could : but who 
was I to resist the whole chapter ? Could I alone brave 
St. Ethebreda's wrath % '* 

" Alwyn, the valiant, afraid of a dead girl ! " 

" Blaspheme not, Hereward ! She may hear you at 
this moment ! Look there ! " and pointing upj^the monk 
cowered in terror, as a meteor flashed through the sky. 

" That is St Ethelreda shooting at us, eh % Then all I 
can say is, she is a very^bad marksman. And the French 
are in the island 1 " 

" They are." 

" Then forward, men, for one half-hoiur's pleasure ; 
and then to die like Englishmen." 

" On 1 " cried Alwyn. " You cannot go on. The 
K^ing is at Whichford at this moment with all his armyj 
half a mile off ! Right across the road to Ely ! " 

Hereward grew Berserk. " On ! men I " shouted he, 



TTie Wake. ^37 

" we shall kill a few Frenchmen apiece before we 
die ! " 

" Hereward," cried Torfrida, " you shall not go on ! 
If you go, I shall be takea And if I am taken, I shall 
be burned. And I cannot bum — I cannot ! I shall go 
mad with terror before I come to the stake. I cannot go 
stript to my smock before those Frenchmen. I cannot be 
roasted piecemeal ! Hereward, take me away ! Take 
me away ! or kill me, now and here ! " 

He paused. He had never seen Torfrida thus over- 
come. 

"Let us flee! The stars are against us. God is 
against us I Let us hide — escape abroad : beg our 
bread, go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem together — for 
together it must be always : but take me away !" 

"We will go back to the boats, men," said Here- 
ward. 

But they did not go. They stood there, irresolute, 
looking. towards Ely. 

The sky was pitchy dark. The minster-roofs, lying 
north-east, were utterly invisible against the blackness. 

" We may at least save some who escape out," said 
Hereward. " March on quickly to the left, under the hill 
to the plough-field." 

They did so. 

** Lie down, men. There are the French, close on our 
right. Down among the bushes." 



238 Hereward 

And they heard the heavy tramp of men within a 
quarter of a mile. 

" Cover the mare's eyes, and hold her mouth, lest she 
neigh," said Winter. 

Hereward and Torfrida lay side by side upon the 
heath. She was shivering with cold and horror. He 
laid his cloak over her ; put his arm round her. 

" Your stars, did not foretell you this, Torfrida." He 
spoke not bitterly, but in utter sadness. 

She burst into an agpny of weeping. 

" My stars at least foretold me nothing but woe, since 
first I saw your face." 

" Wljy did you marry me, then 1 " asked he half angrily. 

" Because I loved you. Because I love you still." 

^* Then you do not regret ? " 

"Never, never, never! I am quite happy — quite 
happy. Why not 1" 

A low murmur from the men made them look up. 
They were near enough to the town to hear — only too 
much. They heiard the tramp of men, shouts and yells. 
Then the shrill cries of women. All dull and muffled 
the sounds came to them through the still night ; and 
they lay there spell-bound, as in a nightmare, as men 
assisting at some horrible tragedy, which they had no 
power to prevent Then there was a glare, and a wisp 
of smoke against the black sky, and then a house began 
l)uming brightly, and then another. 



The Wake, 239 

" This IS the Frenchman's faith ! " 

And all the while, as the sack raged in the town below, 
the minster stood above, glaring in the firelight, silent 
and safe. The church had provided for herself, by sacri- 
iicing the children beneath her fostering shadow. 

They waited nearly an hour, but no fugitives came 
out. 

"Come, men," said Hereward, wearily, "we may as 
well to the boats." 

And so they went, walking on like men in a dream, as 
yet too stunned to realize to themselves the hopeless 
horror of their situation. Only Hereward and Torfrida 
saw it all, looking back on the splendid past— the 
splendid hopes for the future : glory, honour, an earl- 
dom, a free Danish England — and this was: all that was 
left ! 

" No it is not ! " cried Torfrida suddenly, as if answer- 
ing her own unspoken thoughts, and his. " Love is still 
left. The gallows and the stake cannot take that away." 
And she clung closer to her husband's side, and he 
again to hers. 

They reached the shore, and told their tale to their 
comrades. Whither now 1 

To Well. To the wide mere,"* said Hereward. 



u 



* Probably near Upwell and Outwell, in the direction of Wisbeach. 
There the old Nene and the old Welney Rivers joining, formed vast 
morasses, now laid dry by the Middle Level and Marshland Drains. 



34^ :Hereward 

" But their ships will hunt us out there." 

"We shall need no hunting. We must pick up the 
men at Cissham. You would not leave them to be 
murdered, too, as we have left the Ely men?" 

No. They would go to Well. And then % 

"The Bruneswald, and the merry greenwood," said 
Hereward. 

" Hey for the merry greenwood ! " shouted Leofric 
the Deacon. And the men, in the sudden delight of 
finding any place, any puipose, answered with a lusty 
cheer. 

" Brave hearts ! " said Hereward. " We will live and 
die together like Englishmen." 

" We will, we will, Viking." 

"Where shall we stow the mare?" asked Geri, "the 
boats are fiill already." 

" Leave her to me. On board, Torfrida." 

He got on . board last, leading the mare by the 
bridle. 

" Swim, good lass ! " said he, as they pushed off; aiid 
the good lass, who had done it many a time before, 
waded in, and was soon swimming behind. Hereward 
turned, and bent over the side in the darkness. There 

The bursting of the Middle Level Sluice in the year i86i, restored for 
awhile a vast tract in these fens to its primaeval state of ''the Wide 
Mere." From this point Hereward could escape north into Lincotn- 
shire, either by Wisbeach and the Wash, or by Crowknd and Bourne. 



The Wake, 241- 

was a strange gurgle, a splash, and a swirl. He turned' 
round, and sat upright again. They rowed on. 

"That mare will never swim all the way to Well," said 
one. 

" She will not need it," said Hereward. 

" Why % " said Torfrida, feeling in the darkness, " she 
is loose. What is this in your handl Your dagger? 
and wet?" 

" Mare Swallow is at the bottom of the reach. We 
could never have got her to Well." 

" And you have " cried a dozen voices. 

" Do you think that I would let a cursed Frenchman 
— ay, even William's self — say that he had bestridden 
Hereward's mare 1 " 

None answered : but Torfrida, as she laid her head 
upon her husband's bosom, felt the great tears running 
down from his cheek on to her own. 

None spoke a word. The men were awe-stricken. 
There was something despairing and ill-omened in the 
deed. And yet there was a savage grandeur in it, which 
bound their savage hearts still closer to their chie£ 

And so mare Swallow's bones lie somewhere in the 
peat unto this day. 

They got to Well ; they sent out spies to find the 
men who had been "wasting Cissham with fire and 
sword :" and at last brought them in. Ill news, as 
usual, had travelled fast They had heard of the fall 

VOL. II. R 



242 Hereward 

of Ely, and hidden themselves "in a certain very 
small island which is called Stimtench," where, thinking 
that the friends in search of them were Frenchmen in 
pursuit, they hid themselves amongst the high reeds. 
There two of them — one Starkwulf by name, the other 
Broher — ^hiding near each other, " thought that, as they 
were monks, it might conduce to their safety if they had 
shaven crowns ; and set to work with their swords to 
shave each other's heads as well as they could. But at 
last, by their war-cries and their speech, recognising each 
other, they left off fighting," and went after Hereward. 

So jokes, grimly enough, the old Chronicler, who may 

have seen them come in the next morning, with bleeding 

coxcombs, and could laugh over the thing in after years- 

But he was in no humour for jesting in the days in which 

they lay at WelL Nor was he in jesting humour when, 

a week afterwards, hunted by the French firom Well, and 

forced to take to meres and waterways known only to 

them, and too shallow and narrow for the French ships, 

they found their way across into the old Nen, and so 

on toward Crowland, leaving Peterborough far on the 

left. For as they neared Crowland, they saw before 

them, rowing slowly, a barge full of men. And as they 

neared that barge, behold, all they who rowed were blind 

of both their eyes \ and all they who sat and guided 

them, were maimed of both their hands. And as they 

came alongside, there was not a man in all that ghastly 



The Wake, 243 

crew but was an ancient friend, by whose side they had 
fought full many a day, and with whom they had drunk 
deep full many a night. They were the first fruits of 
William's vengeance; thrust into that boat, to tell the 
rest of the fen-men what those had to expect who dared 
oppose the Norman. And they were going to Crowland, 
to the sanctuary of the Danish fen-men, that they might 
cast themselves down before St. Guthlac, and ask of him 
that mercy for their souls which the Conqueror had 
denied to their bodies. Alas for them ! They were but 
a handful among hundreds, perhaps thousands, of muti- 
lated cripples, who swarmed all over England, and 
especially in the 'north and east, throughout the reign 
of the Norman conquerors. They told their comrades' 
fate, slaughtered in the first attack, or hanged afterwards 
as rebels and traitors to a foreigner whom they had never 
seen, and to whom they owed no fealty by law of God 
or man. 

" And Sigtryg Ranaldsson ? " 

None knew aught of him. He never got home again 
to his Irish princess. 

" And the poor women % " asked Torfrida. 

But she received no answer. 

And the men swore a great oath, and kept it ; never to 
give quarter to a Frenchman, as long as there was one 
left on English ground. 

Neither were the monks of Ely in jesting humour, when 

R 2 



244 Hereward 

they came to count up the price of their own baseixess.^ 
They had obeyed the apostolic injunction, " to submit to 
the powers that be, because they are ordained,'* &c. But. 
they found their return (as the Book of Ely calls it) to 
" a more wholesome counsel," beset with thorns. The 
King barred them out of the monastery, lest the monks, 
should come out with crosses and relics to implore his 
mercy. Going into the minster, he stood afar off from 
the holy body of St. Etheldreda, and cast a mark ot 
gold on the altar, as a ^peace-offering to that terrible 
lady ; and then retired to Witchford, leaving his soldiers 
to work their wicked will. So terrified were the poor 
monks, that no mass was celebrated that day: but as 
the hours wore on, they needs must eat And as they 
ate, there entered to them into the refectory Gilbert of 
Clare — 

" Ye English swine, could ye find no other time to 
feed ] The King is in the minster." 

Out hurried the monks, but too late. The King was 
gone ; and hardly, by humbling themselves to their old 
enemy Gilbert, did they obtain grace of the Eong for 
seven hundred marks of silver. The which money they 
took, as they had promised, to Picot the Viscount of 
Cambridge. He weighed it; and finding it an ounce 
short, accused them of cheating the King, and sentenced 
them to pay 300 marks more. Then was lost all the gold 
and silver which was left in Ely : the image of St Maiy 



The Wake. 245 

with her child, sitting on a throne, wrought with wondrous 
skill, which Elfsy the abbot had made of gold and silver, 
was broken up ; and the images of the guardian virgins 
stripped of their precious ornaments. After which the 
royal commissioners came, plundered the abbey of all 

- that was left of those treasures, which had been brought 
from every quarter into the camp of refuge, of which a 
curious inventory remains to this day. 

Thurstan, the traitor abbot, died in a few months. 
Egelwin, the Bishop of Durham, was taken in the abbey. 
He was a bishop, and they dared not kill him. But he 
was a patriot, and must have no mercy. They accused 
him of stealing the treasures of Durham, which he had 
brought to Ely for the service of his country ; and shut 
him up in Abingdon. A few months after, the brave 
man was found starved and dead, " whether of his own 
will, or enforced j" and so ended another patriot prelate. 
But we do not read that the Normans gave back the 
treasures to Durham. And so, yielding an immense 
mass .of booty, and many a fair woman, as the Norman's 

. prey, ended the camp of refuge, and the glory of the isle 
of Ely. 
But not the wrath of St. Etheldreda. Whatever she 

• might have done when on earth, she was not inclined, as 
patroness of Ely, to obey the apostolic injunction, and 
"take joyfully the spoihng of her goods;" and she fell 
upon those who had robbed her of her gay garments 



246 Herewara 

and rich manors^ and left her to go in russet for many a 
year, with such strokes as proved that the monks had 
chosen the less of two evils, when they preferred falling 
into the hands of an angry king to falling into those 
of an angry saint. Terrible was the fate of Roger Kcot^s 
man Gervase, who dared to harry and bind St. Ethel- 
dreda*s men ; who even brought an action at law against 
the Abbot himself. The very night before the trial, 
St. Etheldreda, and her two sisters St Withburga and 
Sexburga, stabbed him to the heart with the spikes 
of their pastoral staves, and he died, to the terror of all 
bystanders. 

Worse, even, was the fate of Roger Picot himself, 
** the hungry lion, the prowling wolf, the crafty fox, the 
filthy swine, the shameless dog," who had said, " Who 
is this Etheldreda, whose lands ye say that I have 
taken 1 I know not Etheldreda, and I will not give up 
her lands." 

" Listen, ye isles, and attend, ye people from afar off, 
what her Spouse hath done for the Lady of Ely. His 
sin, saith Scripture, is sought, and shall not be found 
By whom is it sought % By Him from whom nothing is 
hidden. By whom shall it be found? By no man, 
since none know His day. Whither he is gone, why 
he fled, or how he has died ; whether he has descended 
alive into the pit with Dathan and Abyrom, or become 
a beast with Nabuchadonossor ; hath vanished utterly. 



Uu Wake, 247 

or by any other mode hath perished, to be damned 
without end. But one thing we know for certain, that 
in our bounds he has appeared no more, but has dis- 
appeared for ever to-day. Glory to Him who has given 
us the victory over our enemy." 

Worse again (according to those of Ely) was the fate 
of Earl William de Warrenne, who violently withheld 
some farms from St Etheldreda. For on the night on 
which he died, the then abbot heard his soul carried off 
by demons, crying in vain to heaven for mercy. There- 
fore when his lady, Gundreda (William the Conqueror's 
step-daughter), a few days after, sent a hundred shillings 
for his soul to the minster at Ely, the abbot and his 
monks sent them back, neither deigning nor daring to 
take the money of a damned man. So there is no hope 
for Earl Warrenne, were it not that the Cluniac monks, 
whom he had established at Lewes, holding naturally a 
different opinion of him and his deeds, buried him there 
in splendour, and put up over his tomb a white marble 
slab, on which were set forth his virtues, and the present 
protection and future rewards which St. Pancras was to 
procure for him in return for the minster which he had 
jaised in honour of that mighty avenger of perjury.* 

After which — ^whether St. Pancras did or did not 
deliver Earl William from the wrath of St. Etheldreda — 
the Lady of Ely was appeased ; and when almost all the 

* Ordericus Vitalis, book viil c. 9. 



248 . Hereward 

monks were either sick or d3dng (possibly from one of 
those fevers which so often devastated the fens), she was 
seen, after long fastings and vigils, by a holy man named 
Gk>deric, staying the hand of some mighty being, who 
was in act to shoot an arrow from heaven against the 
doomed borough. After which, watching and praying 
still more fervently, he beheld St. Etheldreda and her 
maidens rise from their tombs by night, and walk majestic^ 
through choir and cloister, and so to the sick-house and 
the dying monks. And there the Lady of Ely, went 
round to every bed, and laid her pure hand upon the 
throbbing forehead and wiped the typhus-gore from the 
faded lips with her sacred sleeve, and gave the sufferers 
sudden health and strength; and signified to Goderic, 
who had followed her trembling afar off, that all was 
forgiven and forgotten.* 

* For all these tales (the last is told with much pathos), see the 
Liber Eliensis, book ii. § 119— 133. 



The Wake, 249 



CHAPTER XV. 

HOW HEREWARD WENT TO THE GREENWOOD. 

And now is Hereward to the greenwood gone, to be a 
bold outlaw; and not only an outlaw himself, but the 
father of all outlaws, who held those forests for two 
hundred years, from the fens to the Scottish border. 
Utlages, forestiers, latrunculi, sicarii, sauvages, who 
prided themselves upon sleeping on the bare ground — 
they were accursed by the conquerors, and beloved by 
the conquered. The Norman viscount or sheriff com- 
*manded to hunt them from hundred to hundred, with 
hue and cry, horse and bloodhound. The English 
yeoman left for them a keg of ale, or a basket of loaves, 
beneath the hollins green, as sauce for their meal of 
" nombles of the dere." 



and 



** For hart and hind, and doe and roe, 
Were m that forest great plentie,* 

'* Swannes and fesaimtes they had full good. 
And foules of the rivere. 
There fayled never so lytell a b3Tde, 
That ever was bred on brere. " 



^ I 



-250 Hereward 

With the same friendly yeoman "that was a good 
felawe," they would lodge by twos and threes during the 
sharp frosts of mid-winter, in the lonely farm-house which 
stood in the "field" or forest-clearing: but for the 
greater part of the year their " lodging was on the cold 
ground" in the holly thickets, or under the hanging 
rock, or in a lodge of boughs. 

And then, after a while, the life which began in terror, 
and despair, and poverty, and loss of land and kin, 
became not only tolerable, but pleasant Bold men and 
hardy, they cared less and less for 

"The thomie wayes, the deep valleys, 
The snowe, the frost, the rayne, 
The colde, the hete ; for dry or wete 
We must lodge on the plaine, 
And us above, none other roofe, 
But a brake bushe, or twa3me." 

And they found fair lasses, too, in time, who, like 
Torfrida and Maid Marian, would answer, with the nut- 
brown maid, to their warnings against the outlaw life, 
that — 

" Amonge the wylde dere, such an archere 
As men say that ye be, 
He may not fayle of good vitayle, 
Where is so great plenty : 
And water clere of the rivere, 

Shall be full swete to me. 
With which in hele, I shall right wele, 
Endure, as ye may see.*' 



The WaJu. 251 

Then called they themselves "merry men ;" and the 
forest the " merry greenwood ; " and sang, with Robin 
Hood, 

** A merrier man than I, beljrve ^ 



There lives not m Christentie. 



»> ■- 



They were coaxed back, at times, to civilized life; 
they got their grace of the king, and entered the king's 
service : but the craving after the greenwood was upon 
them. They dreaded and hated the four stone walls of 
a Norman castle ; and, like Robin Hood, slipt back to 
the forest and the deer. 

Gradually, too, law and order arose among them, 
lawless as they were; that instinct ot discipline and 
self-government, side by side with that of personal inde- 
pendence, which is the peculiar mark, and peculiar 
strength, of the English character. Who knows not how, 
in the " Lytell Geste of Robin Hood," they shot at 
" pluck-buflfet," the king among them disguised as an 
abbot; and every man who missed the rose-garland, 
^* his tackle he should tyne ; " 

" And here a buffet on hisjead, 
Iwys rj^ht all bare, 
And all that fell on Rob3m*s lote, 
He smote them wonder sair. 

** Till Robyn fay led of the garlonde, 
Three fyngers and mair." 

Then good Gilbert bids him in his turn 



-252 Hereward 

** * Stand forth and take his pay.* 

" * If it be so,' sayd Robyn, 

* That may no better be, 

S)nr Abbot, I delyver thee myn arrowe, 
I pray thee, Syr, serve thou me.' 

** * It falleth not for myne order,' saith our kynge,, 

* Robyn, by thy leve. 

For to smyte no good yeman. 
For doute I should h3nn greve.' 

" * Smyte on boldly, * sayd Robyn, "J 

* I give thee large leve.' 
Anon our kynge, with that word, 

He folde up his sieve. 

" And such a buffet he gave Robyn, 
To grounde he yode full nere. 
* I make myn avowe,* sayd Robyn, 

* Thou art a stalwarte frere.' 

** * There is pyth in thyn arme,' sayd Robyn, 

* I trowe thou canst well shoote.' 
Thus our kynge and Robyn Hode 

Together they are met" 



Hard knocks in good humour, strict rules, fair play, 
and equal justice for high and low; this was the old 
outlaw spirit, which has descended to their inlawed 
descendants; and makes, to this day, the life and 
marrow of an English public school. 

One fixed idea the outlaw had — ^hatred of the invader. 
If "his herd were the king's deer," "his treasure was 
the earl's purse;" and still oftener the purse of the 



The Wake. 253 

foreign churchman, Frenchman or Italian, who had 
expelled the outlaw's English cousins from their con- 
vents; scourged and imprisoned them, as the blessed 
archbishop Lanfranc did at Canterbury, because they 
would not own allegiance to a French abbot; or 
murdered them at the high altar, as did the new abbot 
of Glastonbury, because they would not change their old 
Gregorian chant for that of William of Fescamp.* 

On these mitred tyrants the outlaw had no mercy, as 
far as their purses were concerned. Their persons, as 
consecrated, were even to him sacred and inviolable — at 
least, from wounds and death; and one may suppose 
Hereward himself to have been the first author of the 
laws afterward attributed to Robin Hood. As for 
" robbing and reving, beting and bynding," free warren 
was allowed against the Norman. 

'* ' Thereof no fors, ' said Robyn, 
' We shall do well enow. 
But look ye do no housebonde harme, 
That tylleth wyth his plough. 

** * No more ye shall no good yemiLn, 
That walketh by grene wood shawe ; 
Ne no knyght, ne no squyer, 
That will be good feUwe. 

" 'These bysshoppes, and these archbyshoppes, 
Ye shall them bete and binde ; 
The hye sheryfT of Nottingham, 
Hym holde in your mynde.' 

* See the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. 



254 Hereward 



** Robyn loved our dere Ladye, 
For doubt of deddy synne, 
Wolde he never do company harme 
That any woman was ynne." 



And even so it was with The Wake when he was 
in the Bruneswald, if the old chroniclers are to be 
believed. 

And now Torfrida was astonished. She had given 
way utterly at Ely, from woman's fear, and woman's dis- 
appointment All was over. All was lost. What was 
left, save to die 1 

But — ^and it was a new and unexpected fact to one of 
her excitable Southern blood, easily raised, and easily 
depressed — she discovered that neither her husband, nor 
Winter, nor Geri, nor Wenoch, nor Ranald of Ramsey, 
nor even the romancing harping Leofric, thought that all 
was lost. She argued it with them, not to persuade them 
into base submission, but to satisfy her own surprise. 

" But what will you do ? " 

" Live in the greenwood." 

" And what then % " 

" Bum every town which a Frenchman holds, and kill 
every Frenchman we meet." 

" But what plan have you 1 " 

" Who wants a plan, as you call it, while he has the 



The Wake. 255 

green hollies overhead, the dun deer on the lawn, bow 
in his hand, and sword by his side 1 " 

" But what will be the end of it all ? " 

" We shall live till we die." 

" But William is master of all England." 

" What is that to us 1 He is not our master." 

"But he must be some day. You will grow fewer 
and fewer. His government will grow stronger and 
stronger." 

" What is that to us ] When we are dead, there will 
be brave yeomen in plenty to take our place. You 
would not turn traitor?" 

"II never ! never ! I will live and die with you in 
your greenwood, as you call it. Only — I did not under- 
stand you English." 

Torfrida did not. She was discovering the fact, which^ 
her nation have more than once discovered since, that 
the stupid valour of the Englishman never knows when 
it is beaten; and sometimes, by that self-satisfied 
ignorance, succeeds in not being beaten after all. 

So The Wake — if the chroniclers speak truth — 
assembled a formidable force, well nigh, at last, four 
hundred men. Winter, Geri, Wenoch, Grogan, one of 
the Azers of Lincoln, were still with him. Ranald the 
seneschal still carried his standard. Of Duti and Outi, 
the famous brothers, no more is heard. A valiant 
Matelgar takes their place ; Alfric and Sexwold and 



256 Hereward 

many another gallant fugitive cast up, like scattered 
hounds, at the sound of "The Wake's" war-hbm.. 
There were those among them (says Gaimar) who 
scorned to fight single-handed less than three French- 
men. As for The Wake, he would fight seven, 

" Les quatre oscist, les treis fuirent ; 
Naffrez, sanglant, cil s*en partirent 
En plusurs lius issi avint, 
K'encontre seit tr^ bien se tuit 
De seit hommes avait vertu, 
Un plus hardi ne fu veu. " 

They ranged up the Bruneswald, dashing out to the 
war-cry of " A Wake ! A Wake ! " and laying all waste 
with fire and sword ; that is, such towns as were in the 
hands of Frenchmen. A noble range they must have had, 
for gallant sportsmen. Away south, between the Nene 
and Welland, stretched from Stamford and Peterborough 
the still vast forests of Rockingham, nigh twenty miles 
in length as the crow fliies, down beyond Rockingham 
town, and Geddington Chase. To the west, they had 
the range of the " hunting counties," dotted still, in the 
more eastern part, with innumerable copses and shaughs, 
the remnants of the great forest, out of which, as out of 
Rockinghamshire, have been cut those fair parks and 

'' Handsome houses, 
Where the wealthy nobles dwell;" 



The Wake. 257 

past which the Lord of Burghley led his Welsh bride to 
that Burghley House by Stamford town, well-nigh the 
noblest of them all, which was in Hereward's time deep 
wood, and freestone down. Roimd Exton, and Nor- 
manton, and that other Burley on the Hill ; on through 
those Morkery woods, which still retain the name of 
Hereward's ill-fated nephew; north by Imham and 
Corby; on to Belton and Syston, (par nobile,) and 
south-west again to those still wooded heights, whence 
all-but-royal Belvoir looks out over the rich green vale 
below, did Hereward and his men range far and wide, 
harrying the Frenchman, and hunting the dun deer. 
Stags and fallow deer there were in plenty. There 
remain to this day, in Grimsthorpe Park by Bourne, the 
descendants of the very deer which Earl Leofric and 
Earl Algar, and after them Hereward the outlaw, hunted 
in the Bruneswald. 

Deep tangled forest filled the lower claylands, swarm- 
ing with pheasant, roe, badger, and more wolves than 
were needed. Broken park-like glades covered the 
upper freestones, where the red deer came out from 
harbour for their evening graze, and the partridges and 
plovers whirred up, and the hares loped away, innumer- 
able ; and where hollies and ferns always gave dry lying 
for the night. What did men need more, whose bodies 
-were as stout as their hearts ? 

They were poachers and robbers — ^and why not? 

VOL. II. s 



258 Mereward 

The deer had once been theirs, the game, the land, die 
serfs ; and if Godric of Corby slew the Imham deer, and 
burned Imham hall over the head of the new French 
lord, and thought no harm, he did but what he would 
with that which had been once his own. 

Easy it was to dash out by night, and make a raid ; to 
harry the places which they once had owned them- 
selves ; in the vale of Belvoir to the west, or to the east 
in the strip of fertile land which sloped down into the 
fen ; and levy black mail in Folkingham, or Aslackby, or 
Sleaford, or any other of the "ViUs" (now thriving 
villages) which still remain in Domesday book, and 
written against them the ugly and significant — 

" In Tatenai habuerunt Turgisle etSuen IIII, carrucas 
terrae," &c. " Hoc Ivo Taillebosc ibi habet in dominio" 
-—all, that is, that the wars had left of them. 

The said Turgisle (Torkill or Turketil misspelt by 
Frenchmen) and Swe)m, and many a good man more — 
for Ivo's possessions were enormous — were thorns in the 
sides of Ivo and his men, which must be extracted ; and 
the Bruneswald a nest of hornets, which must be smoked 
out at any cost. 

Wherefore it befell, that once upon a day, there came 
riding to Hereward in the Bruneswald, a horseman all 
alone. 

And meeting with Hereward and his men, he made 
signs of amity, and bowed himself low, and pulled out 



The Wake. 259 

•of his purse a letter, protesting that he was an English- 
man, and a '' good felawe," and that though he came from 
Lincoln town, a fnend to the English had sent him. 

That was believable enough, for Hereward had his 
friends, and his spies, far and wide. 

And when he opened the letter, and looked first, like 
a wary man, at the signature, — a sudden thrill went 
•through him. 

It was Alftruda's. 

If he was interested in her, considering what had 
passed between them from her childhood, it was nothing 
to be ashamed of. And yet, somehow, he felt ashamed 
of that same sudden thrill. 

And Hereward had reason to be ashamed. He had 

been faithful to. Torfrida — a virtue most rare in those 

days. Few were faithful then, save, it may be, Baldwin 

oi Mons to his tyrant and idol, the sorceress Richilda ; 

;and William of Normandy, — ^whatever were his other 

sins, — ^to his wise, and sweet, and beautiful Matilda. 

The stories of his coldness and cruelty to her seem to 

rest on no foundation. One need believe them as little 

as one does the myth of one chronicler, that when she 

tried to stop him from some expedition, and clung to him 

:as he sat upon his horse, he smote his spur so deep into 

her breast that she fell dead. The man had self-control, 

^nd feared God, in his own wild way : therefore it was, 

perhaps, that he conquered. 

s 2 



26o Hereward 

And Hereward had been faithful likewise to Torfrida; 
and loved her with an overwhelming adoration, — as all 
true men love. And for that very reason he was the 
more aware, that his feeling for Alflruda was strangely 
like his feeling for Torfrida ; and yet strangely different 

There was nothing in the letter that he should not 
have read. She called him her best and dearest friend, 
twice the saviour of her life. What could she do in 
return, but, at any risk to herself, try and save his life 1 
The French were upon him. The posse comitatus of 
seven counties was raising. " Northampton, Cambridge, 
Lincoln, Holland, Leicester, Huntingdon, Warwick," 
were coming to the Bruneswald to root him out 

"Lincoln?" thought Hereward. "That must be 
Gilbert of Ghent, and Oger the Breton. No ! Gilbert 
is not coming; Sir Ascelin is coming for him. Holland! 
That is my friend Ivo Taillebois. Well, we shall have 
the chance of paying off old scores. Northampton? 
The Earl thereof just now is the pious and loyal 
Waltheof, as he is of Himtingdon and Cambridge. Is 
he going to join young Fitz-Osbem from Warwick and 
Leicester, to root out the last Englishman ? Why not ? 
That would be a deed worthy of the man who married 
Judith, and believes in the powers that be, and eats dirt 
daily at William's table." 

Then he read on. 

Ascelin had been mentioned, he remarkedj three or 



The Wake. 261 

four times in the letter, which was long, as from one 
lingering over the paper, wishing to say more than she 
dared. At the end was a hint of the reason : 

" Oh, that having saved me twice, you could save me 
once more. Know you that Gospatric has been driven 
from his earldom on charge of treason, and that Waltheof 
has Northumbria in his place, as well as the parts round 
you 1 And that Gospatric is fled to Scotland again, with 
his sons — my man among them 1 And now the report 
comes, that my man is slain in battle on the Border ; and 
that I am to be given away, — ^as I have been given away 
twice before, — to Ascelin. This I know, as I know all, 
not only from him of Ghent, but from him of Peter- 
borough, Ascelin's uncle." 

Hereward laughed a laugh of cynical triumph, — ^par- 
donable enough in a broken man. 

'' Gospatric ! the wittol ! the woodcock ! looking at the 
springe, and then coolly putting his head therein. 
Throwing the hatchet after the helve ! selling his soul, 
and never getting the price of it ! I foresaw it, foretold 
it, I believe to Alftruda herself, — foretold that he would 
not keep his bought earldom three years. What a people 
we are, we English, if Gospatric is — as he is — ^the 
shrewdest man among us, with a dash of canny Scots 
blood too. * Among the one-eyed, the blind is king,' says 
Torfrida, out of her wise ancients, and blind we are, if 
he is our best. No. There is one better man left, I 



a62 Hereward 

trast ; one that will never be sleepy enough to put his^ 
head into the wolfs mouth, and trust the Frenchman, and 
that is, I The Wake." 

And Hereward boasted to himself, at Gospatric's ex- 
pense^ of his own superior wisdom, till his eye caught a 
line or two, which finished the letter. 

"Oh, that you would change your mind, much as I 
honour you for it Oh that you would come in to the 
king, who loves and trusts you, having seen your con- 
stancy and faith, proved by so many years of affliction. 
Qreat things are open to you, and great joys j — I dare 
not tell you what : but I know them, if you would come 
in.. You, to waste yourself in the forest, an outlaw and 
a savage ! Opportunity once lost, never returns ; time 
ijies fast, Hereward my friend, and we shall all grow 
old, — I think at times that I shall soon grow old. And 
the joys of life will be impossible, and nothing left but 
.vain regrets.'* 

" Hey % " said Hereward, " a very clerkly letter. I did 
hot think she was so good a scholar. Almost as good a 
one as Torfrida." 

. That was all he said ; and as for thinking, he had the 
posse comitatus of seven counties to think of But what 
could those great fortunes and joys be, which Alftruda 
did not dare to describe % 

She growing old, too % Impossible: that was woman's 
va^nity. It was but two years since she was as fair as. a 



The Wake.' 263 

saint in a window. " She shall not many Ascelin. I 
will cut his head off. She shall have her own choice for 
once, poor child.^ 

And Hereward found himself worked up to a great 
height of paternal solicitude for Alftruda, and righteous 
indignation against Ascelin. He did not confess to him- 
self that he disliked much, in his selfish vanity, the notion 
of Alftruda's marrying any one at alL He did not want 
to marry her himself, — of course not But there is no 
dog in the manger so churlish on such points as a vain 
man. There are those who will not willingly let their 
own sisters, their own daughters, their own servants 
marry. Why should a woman wish to marry any one 
but them 1 

But Hereward, however vain, was no dreamer or slug- 
gard. He set to work, joyfully, cheerfully, scenting battle 
afar off, like Job's war horse, and pawing for the battle. 
He sent back Alftruda's messenger, with this answer : — 

" Tell your lady that I kiss her hands and feet. That 
I cannot write, for outlaws carry no pen and ink. But 
that what she has commanded, that will I perform." 

It is noteworthy, that when Hereward showed Tor- 
frida (which he did frankly) Alftruda's letter, he did not 
tell her the exact' words of his answer, and stumbled and 
varied much, vexing her thereby, when she, naturally, 
wished to hear them word for word. 

Then he sent out spies to the four airts of heaven. 



264 



Hereward 



And his spies, finding a friend and a meal in every hovely 
.brought home all the news he needed. 

He withdrew Torfrida and his men into the heart of 
the forest, — ^no hint of the place is given by the chro- 
nicler, — cut down trees, formed an abattis of trunks and 
branches, and awaited the enemy. 



The Wake. 265 



CHAPTER XVI. 

HOW ABBOT THOROLD WAS PUT TO RANSOM. 

Though Hereward had, as yet, no feud against 
"Bysshoppes and Archbysshoppes," save Egelsin of 
Selsey, who had excommunicated him, but who was at 
the other end of England, he had feud, as may be sup- 
posed, against Thorold, Abbot of Peterborough \ and 
Thorold feud likewise against him. When Thorold had 
entered the " Golden Borough,** hoping to fatten himself 
with all its treasures, he had found it a smoking ruin, and 
its treasures gone to Ely to pay Sweyn and his Danes. 
And such a sacrilege, especially when he was the loser 
thereby, was the unpardonable sin itself in the eyes of 
Thorold, as he hoped it might be in the eyes of St 
Peter. Joyfiilly therefore he joined his friend Ivo Tail- 
lebois, when, " with his usual pompous verbosity," saith 
Peter of Blois, writing on this very matter, he asked him 
to join in destroying Hereward. 

Nevertheless, with all the French chivalry at their 
back, it behoved them to move with caution ; for (so 
says the chronicler) " Hereward had in these days very 



266 Hereward 

many foreigners, as well as landsfoUc, who had^ come to 
him to practise and learn war, and fled from their masters 
and friends when they heard of his fame ;. some of them 
even the Kling's courtiers, who had come to see whether 
those things which they heard were true, whom Here- 
ward nevertheless received cautiously, on plighted troth 
and oath." 

So Ivo Taillebois summoned all his men, and all other 
men's men who would join him, and rode forth through 
Spalding and Bourne, having announced to Lucia, his 
bride, that he was going to slay her one remaining rela- 
tive ; and when she wept, cursed and kicked her, as he 
did once a week. After which he came to Thorold of 
Peterborough. 

So on the two worthies rode from Peterborough to 
Stamford, and from Stamford into the wilderness, no man 
.knows whither. 

" And far they rode by bush and shaugh, 
And far^by moss and mure :** 

But never found a track of The Wake or his men. . And 
Ivo Taillebois left off boasting how he would bum Tor- 
frida over a slow fire, and confined himself to cursing; 
and Abbot Thorold left off warbling the song of Roland 
as if he had been gomg to a second battle of Hastings, 
and wished himself in warm bed at Peterborough. 
But at the last they struck upon a great horse-track, and 



JTu Wake. 26T 

followed It at their best pace for several miles ; and yet 
no sign of Hereward. 

" Catch an Eoglishman/' quoth the Abbot. 

But that was not so easy. The poor folk had hidden 
themselves, like Israel of old, in thickets, and dens, and 
caves of rocks, at the far-off sight of the foreign tyrants ; 
and not a living soul had appeared for twenty miles. At 
last they caught a ragged wretch herding swine, and 
haled hun up to Ivo. 

" Have you seen Hereward, villain 1 " asked he, through 
an interpreter. 

« Nay.'' 

'^ You lie. These are his fresh horse-tracks, and you 
must have seen him pass." 

"Eh]" 

'^ Thrust out one of his eyes, and he will find his 
tongue." 

It was done. 

" Will you answer now 1 " 

The poor wretch only howled. 

" Thrust out the other." 

" No, not that ! Mercy : I will tell. He is gone by 
this four hours. How have you not met him % " 

" Fool ! The hoofs point onward there." 

« Ay" — and the fellow could hardly hide a grin — " but 
he had shod all his horses backwards." 

A storm of execration followed. They might be 



26S Hereward 

thrown twenty miles out of their right road by the 
stratagem. 

"So you had seen Hereward, and would not tell I 
Put out his other eye," said Taillebois, as a vent to his 
own feelings. 

And they turned their horses' heads, and rode back, 
leaving the man blind in the forest 

The day was waning now. The fog hung heavy on 
the tree-tops, and dripped upon their heads. The 
horses were getting tired, and slipped and tumbled in 
the deep clay paths. The footmen were more tired 
still, and, cold and hungry, straggled more and more. 
The horse-tracks led over an open lawn of grass and 
fern, with here and there an ancient thorn, and round 
it on three sides thick wood of oak and beech, with 
under copse of holly and hazel Into that wood the 
horse-tracks led, by a path on which there was but 
room for one horse at a time. 

" Here they are at last ! " cried Ivo. " I see the fresh 
foot-marks of men, as well as horses. Push on, knights 
and men-at-arms." 

The Abbot looked at the dark, dripping wood, and 
meditated. > 

''I think that it will be as well for some of us to 
remain here ; and, spreading our men along the wood- 
side, prevent the escape of the villains. A moi, hommes 
d'armes ! " 



The Wake. 269 

"As you Hke. I will go in, and bolt the rabbit ; and 
you shall snap him as he comes out" 

And Ivo, who was as brave as a bull-dog, thrust his 
horse into the path, while the Abbot sat shivering out- 
side. " Certain nobles of higher rank," says Peter de 
Blois, ^ followed his example, not wishing to rust their 
armour, or tear their fine clothes, in the damp copse." 

The knights and men-at-arms straggled slowly into the 
forest, some by the path, some elsewhere, grumbling 
audibly at the black work before them. At last the 
crashing of the branches died away, and all was stilL 

Abbot Thorold sat there upon his shivering horse, 
shivering himself as the cold pierced through his wet 
mail ; and as near an hour passed, and no sign of foe or 
friend appeared, he cursed the hour in which he took off 
the beautiful garments of the sanctuary to endure those 
of the battle-field. He thought of a warm chamber, warm 
bath, warm footcloths, warm pheasant, and warm wine. 
He kicked his freezing iron feet in the freezing iron 
stirrup. He tried to blow his nose with his freezing 
iron hand ; but dropt his handkerchief (an almost unique 
luxury in those days) into the mud, and his horse trod 
on it He tried to warble the song of Roland : but the 
words exploded in a cough and a sneeze. And so 
dragged on the weary hours, says the chronicler, nearly 
all day, till the ninth hour. But never did they see 
coming out of the forest, the men who had gone in. 



^70 Hereward 

A shout from his nephew, Sir Ascelin, made all turn 
their heads. Behind them, on the open lawn, in the 
throat between the woods by which they had entered, 
were some forty knights, galloping towards them. 

" Ivo 1 " 

" No ! " almost shrieked the Abbot " There is the 
Wake banner. It is Hereward." 

"There is Winter on his left," cried one. "And 
there, with the standard, is the accursed monk, Ranald 
of Ramsey." 

And on they came, having debouched from the wood 
some two hundred yards oflF, behind a roll in the lawn, 
just far enough off to charge as soon as they were in 
line. 

On they came, two deep, with lances high over their 
shoulders, heads and heels well down, while the green 
tufts flew behind them. " A moi, hommes d'armes ! " 
shouted the Abbot But too late. The French turned 
right and left. To form was impossible, ere the human 
whirlwind would be upon them. 

Another half minute, and with a shout of " A Wake \ 
A Wake ! " they were struck, ridden through, hurled 
over, and trampled in the mud. 

" I yield. Grace ! I )deld ! " cried Thorold, strug- 
gling from under his horse : but there was no one to 
whom to yield. The knights' backs were fifty yards off, 
their right arms high in the air, striking and stabbing. 



T^ Wake. iji 

The battle was " d routiance." There was no quarter 
given that day. 

" And he that came live out thereof 
Was he that ran away." 

The Abbot tried to make for the wood : but ere he 
could gain it, the knights had turned, and one rode 
straight at him, throwing away a broken lance, and 
drawing his sword. 

Abbot Thorold may not have been the coward which 
Peter of Blois would have him, over and above being 
the bully which all men would have him; but if so, 
even a worm will turn ; and so did the Abbot : he drew 
sword from thigh, got well under his shield, his left foot 
forward, and struck one blow for his life, at the right 
place — ^his foe's bare knee. 

But he had to do with a warier man than himselt. 
There was a quick jerk of the rein ; the horse swerved 
round right upon him, and knocked him head over 
heels ; while his blow went into empty air. 

" Yield, or die I " cried the knight, leaping from his 
horse, and kneeling on his head. 

" I am a man of God, an abbot, churchman, Thorold." 

"Man of all the devils I** and the knight lugged him 
up, and bound his anns behind him with the abbot's 
own belt. 

" Ahoi ! Here ! I have caught a fish. I have got 



«7.2 Screward 

the Golden Borough in toy purse f" roared he. " How 
much has St. Peter gained since we borrowed of him 
jast, Abbot 1 He will have to pay out the silver pennies 
bonnily, if he wishes to get back thee." 

"Blaspheme not, godless barbarian!" Whereat the 
knight kicked him. 

"And you have Thorold the scoundrel, Winter?" 
cried Hereward galloping up. " And we have three or 
more dainty French knights, and a viscount of I know 
not where among them. This is a good day's work. 
Now for Ivo and his tail." 

And the Abbot, with four or five more prisoners, were 
hoisted on to their own horses, tied firmly, and led away 
into tlie forest path. 

" Do not leave a wounded man to die," cried a knight 
who lay on the lawn. 

. " Never we. I will come back and put you out. of 
your pain," quoth some one. 

" Siward \ Siward Le Blanc ! Are you in^this meinie 1" 
cried the knight in French. 

"That am I. Who calls?" 

" For God's sake save him I " cried Thorold. " He is 
my own nephew, and I will pay ^" 

" You will need all your money for yoursdf," said 
Siward the White, riding back. 

" Are you Sir Ascelin of Ghent 1 " 

" That am I, your host of old." 



7^ Wake. 273 

"I wish I had met you in better company. But 
friends we are, and friends must be." 

And he dismounted, and did his best for the wounded 
man, promising him to return and fetch him off before 
night, or send yeomen to do so. 

As he pushed on through the wood, the Abbot began 
to see signs of a fight ; riderless horses crashing through 
the copse, woimded men stragghng back, to be cut down 
without mercy by the English. The war had been 
k I'outrance for a long while. None gave or asked 
quarter. The knights might be kept for ransom ; they 
had money. The wretched men of the lower classes' 
who had none, were slain : as they would have slain the 
English. 

Soon they heard the noise of battle ; and saw horse* 
men and footmen pell-mell, tangled in an abattis, from 
behind which archers and cross-bowmen shot them down 
in safety. 

Hereward dashed forward with a shout, and at that 
the French, taken in the flank, fled, and were smitten as 
they fled, hip and thigh. 

Hereward bade them spare a fugitive, and bring him 
to him. 

" I give you your life ; so run, and carry my message 
That is Taillebois' banner there forward, is it not 1 " 

" Yes." 

" Then go after him, and tell him, — Hereward has the 

VOL. II. T 



274 Hereward 

Abbot of Burgh, and half-a-dozen knights, safe by the^ 
heels. And unless Ivo clears the wood of his men by 
nightM, I will hang every one of them up for the crows 
before morning." 

Ivo got the message, and having had enough fighting 
for the day, drew oflf, sa3rs the chronicler, for the sake of 
the Abbot and his fellow-captives. 

Two hours after the Abbot and the other prisoners 
were sitting, unbound but unarmed, in the forest en- 
campment, waiting for a right good meal ; with Torfrida 
bustling about them, after binding up the very few 
wounded amongst their own men. 

Every courtesy was shown them; and their hearts 
were lifted up, as they beheld approaching among the 
trees great caldrons of good soup ; forest salads ; red 
deer and roe roasted on the wood-embers; spits of 
pheasants and partridges, larks and buntings, thrust off 
one by one by fair hands into the burdock leaves which 
served as platters ; and last but not least, jacks of ale 
and wine, appearing mysteriously fi'om a cool old stone 
quarry. Abbot Thorold ate to his heart's content, 
complimented every one, vowed he would forswear all 
French cooks and take to the greenwood himself, and 
was as gracious and courtly as if he had been at the 
new palace at Winchester. 

And all the more for this reason — that he had 
intended to overawe the English barbarians by his 



The Wake. . 275 

polished French maimers. He found those of Here- 
>ward and Torfrida, at least, as polished as his own. 

" I am glad, you are content, Lord Abbot," said Tor- 
frida; "I trust you prefer dining with me, to burning 
me, as you meant to do." 

" I bum such peerless beauty ! I injure a form made 
only for the courts of kings \ Heaven and all saints, 
knighthood and all chivalry, forbid. What Taillebois 
may have said, I know not ! I am no more answerable 
for his intentions than for his parentage, — or his success 
this day. Let churls be churls, and wood-cutters wood- 
cutters. I at least, thanks to my ancestors, am a gentle- 



man." 



« 



And, as a gentleman, will of course contribute to 
the pleasure of your hosts. It will surely please you to 
gratify us with one stave at least of that song, which has 
made you famous among all knights," holding out a harp. 

" I blush : but obey. A harp in the greenwood % A 
court in the wilderness ! What joy ! " 

And the vain Abbot took the harp, and said—" These, 
if you will allow my modesty to choose, are the staves 
on which I especially pride myself. The staves which 
Taillefer — ^you will pardon my mentioning him ^^ 

" Why pardon % A noble minstrel he was, and a brave 
warrior, though our foe. And often have I longed to 
hear him, little thinking that I should hear instead the 
maker himself." 

T 2 



376 Hereward 

So said Hereward; and the Abbot sang — those 
wondrous staves, where Roland, left alone of all the 
* Paladins, finds death come on him £ast And on the 
Pyrenaean peak, beneath the pine, he lays himself, '* his 
face toward the ground ; and under him his sword and 
magic horn, that Charles his lord may say, and all his 
folk, the gentle count he died a conqueror ; " and then 
'' turns his eyes southward toward Spain ; betakes him* 
self to remember many things ; of so many lands which 
he conquered valiantly; of pleasant France, of the men 
of his lineage, of Charlemagne his lord, who brought 
him up. He could not help to weep and sigh, but yet 
himself he would not forget He bewailed his sins, and 
prayed God's mercy : — ^True Father, who ne'er yet didst 
lie, who raised St Lazarus from death, and guarded 
Daniel from the lions : Guard my soul from all perils, for 
the sins which in my life I did. His right gloye then 
he offered to God ; St Gabriel took it from his hand ; 
On his arm the chief bowed down, with joined hands he 
went unto his end. God sent down his angel Cherubim^ 
and St Michael whom men call ' del periL' Together 
with them St Gabriel he came ; the soul of the count 
they bore to Paradise." 

And the Abbot ended, sadly and gently, without that 
wild " Aoi I " the war-cry with which he usually ends his 
staves. And the wild men of the woods were softened 
and saddened by the melody; and as many as under- 



The Wake. 277 

stood French said, when he finished — "Amen ! so may 
all good knights die ! " 

"Thoii art a great maker, Abbot ! They told truths 
of thee. Sing us more of thy great courtesy." 

And he sang them the staves of the Olifant, the magic 
horn — How Roland would not sound it in his pride, and 
sounded it at Turpin's bidding, but too late ; and how 
his temples burst with that great blast, and Charles and 
all his peers heard it through the gorges, leagues away in 
France. And then his "Aoi !" rang forth so loud and 
clear, like any trumpet blast, under the oaken glades, 
that the wild men leaped to their feet, and shouted 
" Health to the gleeman ! Health to the Abbot 
Thorold ! '• 

" I have won them," thought the Abbot to himself. 
Strange mixture that man must have been, if all which is 
told of him is true ; a very typical Norman, compact of 
cunning and ferocity, chivalry and poetry, vanity and 
superstition, and yet able enough to help to conquer 
England for the Pope. 

Then he pressed Hereward to sing, with many compli- 
ments ; and Hereward sang, and sang again, and all his 
men crowded round him as the outlaws of Judaea may 
have crowded round David in Carmel or Hebron, to 
hear, like children, old ditties which they loved the 
better the oftener they heard them. 
: " No wonder that you can keep these knights together. 



278 JStreivard 

if you can charm them thus with song. " Would that I 
could hear you singing thus in William's hall." 

" No more of that, Sir Abbot The only music which 
I have for William is the music of steel on steel." 

Hereward answered sharply, because he was half of 
Thorold's mind. 

" Now," said Torfrida, as it grew late, " we must ask 
our noble guest for what he can give us as easily and 
well as he can song — ^and that is news. We hear nought 
here in the greenwood, and must throw oneself on the 
kindness of a chance visitor." 

The Abbot leapt at the bait, and told them news, 
court gossip, bringing in great folks' names and his own, 
as often and as familiarly mingled as he could. 

" What of Richilda % '' asked Torfrida. 

" Ever since young Amoul was killed at Cassel ^" 

" Amoul killed ? " shrieked Torfrida. 

" Is it possible that you do not know 1 " 

"How should I know, shut up in Ely for — ^years it 



seems." 



" But they fought at Cassel three months before you 
went to Ely." 

" Be it so. Only tell me. Amoul killed I " 

Then the Abbot told, not without feeling, a fearful 
story, 

Robert the Frison and Richilda had come to open 
war; and Gerbod the Fleming, Eaxl of Chester, had 



The Wake. 279^ 

:gone over from England to help Robert. William had 
sent Fitz Osbem, Earl of Hereford, the scourge and 
tyrant of the Welsh, to help Richilda. Fitz Osbem had 
married her, there and then. She had asked help of her 
liege lord, the King of France, and he had sent her 
troops. Robert and Richilda had fought on St Peter^s 
day, 107 1 — ^nearly two years before, at Bavinchoven, by 
Cassel. 

Richilda had played the heroine, and routed Robert's 
left wing, taken him prisoner, and sent him oflf to St 
Omar. Men said that she had done it by her enchant- 
ments. iSut her enchantments betrayed her nevertheless. 
Fitz Osbem, her bridegroom, fell dead. Young Amoul 
had two horses killed under him. Then Gerbod smote 
him to the ground ; and Richilda and her troops fled in 
horror. Richilda was taken, and exchanged for the 
Frison; at which the King of France, being enraged, 
had come down and burnt St Omer. Then Richilda, 
undaimted, had raised fresh troops to avenge her son. 
Then Robert had met them at Broqueroie by Mons, 
and smote them with a dreadful slaughter.* Then 
Richilda had tumed and fled wildly into a convent; 
and, so men said, tortured herself night and day with 
fearful penances, if by any means she might atone for 
her great sins. 

* The place was called tiU late, and may be now, " The Hedges* 
of Death." 



aSo Hcretvqrd 

Torfrida heard, slnd laid her head upon her knees, and 
wept so bitterly, that the Abbot entreated pardon for 
having pained her so much. 

The news had a deep and lasting effect on her. The 
thought of Richilda shivering and starving in the squalid 
darkness of a convent, abode by her thenceforth. Should 
she ever find herself atoning in like wise for her sorceries 
— ^harmless as they had been ; for her ambitions — just as 
they had been ; for her crimes % But she had committed 
none. No, she had sinned in many things : but she was 
not as Richilda. And yet in the loneliness and sadness 
of the forest, she could not put Richilda from before the 
eyes of her mind. 

It saddened Hereward likewise. For Richilda he 
cared little. But that boy. — How he had loved him I 
How he had taught him to ride, and sing, and. joust, 
and handle sword, and all the art of war. How his 
own rough soul had been the better for that love. 
How he had looked forward to the day when Amoul 
should be a great prince, and requite him with love. 
Now he was gone. Gone? Who was not gone, or 
going? He seemed to himself the last tree in the 
forest. When should his time come, and the lightning 
strike him down to rot beside the rest? But he tost 
the sad thoughts aside. He could not afford to nourish 
them. It was his only chance of life, to be merry and 
desperate. 



Tk€ Wake. 281 

"Well ! ** said Hereward, ere they hapt themselves up 
for the night "We owe you thanks, Abbot Thorold^ 
for an evening worthy of a king's court, rather than a 
holly bush." 

" I have won him over," thought the Abbot. 

"So charming a Courtier — ^so sweet a minstrel — so 
agreeable a newsmonger — could I keep you in a cage for 
ever, and hang you on a bough, I were but too happy : 
but you are too fine a bird to sing in captivity. So you 
must go, I fear, and leave us to the nightingales. And I 
will take for your ransom " 

Abbot Thorold's heart beat high. 

" Thirty thousand silver marks." 

" Thirty thousand fiends ! " 

"My beau Sire, will you imdervalue yourself? Will 
you degrade yourself? I took Abbot Thorold, from his 
talk, to be a man who set even a higher value on himself 
than other men set on him. What higher compli- 
ment can I pay to your vast worth, than maidng your 
ransom high accordingly, after the spirit of our ancient 
English laws? Take it as it is meant, beau Sire; be 
proud to pay the money; and we will throw you Sir 
Ascelin into the bargain, as he seems a friend of 
Siward's." 

Thorold hoped that Hereward was drunk, and might 
forget, or relent : but he was so sore at heart that he 
slept oiot a wink that night. 



282 Hereward 

But in the morning he found, to his sorrow, that 
Hereward had been as sober as himself. 

In fine, he had to pay the money; and was a poor 
man all his days. 

" Aha ! Sir Ascelin," said Hereward apart, as he bade 
them all farewell with many courtesies. " I think I have 
, put a spoke in your wheel about the fair Alftruda." 

" Eh ? How 1 Most courteous victor ? " 

" Sir Ascelin is not a very wealthy gentleman." 

Ascelin laughed assent. 

"Nudus intravi, nudus exeo — 'England; and I fear 
now, this mortal life likewise." 

" But he looked to his rich uncle the Abbot, to further 
a certain marriage-project of his. And of course neither 
my friend Gilbert of Ghent, nor my enemy William of 
Normandy, are likely to give away so rich an heiress 
without some gratification in return." 

"Sir Hereward knows the world, it seems." 

" So he has been told before. And therefore, having 
no intention that Sir Ascelin — ^however worthy of any 
and every fair lady — should marry this one, he took 
care to cut off the stream at the fountain head. If he 
hears that the suit is still pushed, he may cut off another 
head beside the fountain's." 

"There will be no need," said Ascelin, laughing 
again. "You have very sufiiciently ruined my uncle, 
-and my hopes." 



Hu Wake. 283 

"My head?" said he, as soon as Hereward was out 
of hearing. " If I do not cut off thy head ere all is 
over, there is neither luck nor craft left among French- 
men. I shall catch The Wake sleeping some day, let 
him be never so Wakeful." 



a84 Hereward 



CHAPTER XVII. 

HOW ALFTRUDA WROTE TO HEREWARD. 

The weary months ran on, from summer into winter, 
and winter into summer again, for two years and more, 
and neither Torfrida nor Hereward was the better for 
them. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick ; and a sick 
heart is but too apt to be a peevish one. So there were 
fits of despondency, jars, mutual recriminations. " If I 
had not taken your advice, I should not have been here/' 
" If I had not loved you so well, I might have been very 
differently off." And so forth. The words were wiped 
away the next hour, perhaps the next minute, by sacred 
kisses: but they had been said, and would be recol- 
lected, and perhaps said again. 

Then, again, the "merry greenwood" was merry 
enough in the summer tide, when shaughs were green, 
and 

" The woodwde sang, and would not cease. 
Sitting upon the spray, 
So loud, it wakened Robin Hood 
In the greenwood where he lay.*' 



T%e Wake. 285 

But it was a sad place enough, when the autumn fog 
crawled round the gorse, and dripped ofif the hollies, and 
choked alike the breath and the eyesight ; when the air 
sickened with the graveyard smell of rottmg leaves, and 
the rain-water stood in the clay holes over the poached 
and sloppy lawns. 

It was merry enough, too, when they were in winter 
quarters in friendly farm-houses, as long as the bright 
sharp frosts lasted, and they tracked the hares and deer 
merrily over the frozen snows : but it was doleful enough in 
those same farm-houses in the howling wet weather, when 
wind and rain lashed in through the unglazed window 
and ill-made roof, and there were coughs and colds and 
rheumatisms, and Torfrida ached from head to foot, and 
once could not stand upright for a whole month 
together, and every cranny was stuffed up with bits of 
board and rags, keeping out light and air as well as wind 
and water ; and there was little difference between the 
short day and the long night ; and the men gambled and 
wrangled amid clouds of peat reek, over draught-boards 
and chessmen which they had carved for themselves, and 
Torfrida sat stitching and sewing, making and mending, 
her eyes bleared with peat smoke, her hands sore and 
coarse from continued labour, her cheek bronzed, her face 
thin and hollow, and all her beauty worn away for very 
trouble. Then sometimes there was not enough to eat, 
and every one grumbled at her ; or some one's clothes 



2S6 Hereward 

were not mended, and she was grumbled at again. And 
sometimes a foraging party brought home liquor, and all 
who could, got drunk to drive dull care away; and 
Hereward, foigetful of all her warnings, got more than 
was good for him likewise ; and at night she coiled her- 
self up in her furs, cold and contemptuous ; and Here- 
ward coiled himself up, guilty and defiant, and woke her 
again and again with startings and wild words in his 
sleep. And she felt that her beauty was gone, and that 
he saw it; and she fancied him (perhaps it was only 
fancy) less tender than of yore ; and then in very pride 
disdained to take any care of her person, and said to 
herself, though she dare not say it to him, that if he only 
loved her for her face, he did not love her at all. And 
because she fancied him cold at times, she was cold like- 
wise, and grew less and less c^essing, when for his sake^ 
as well as her own, she should have grown more so day 
by day. 

Alas ! for them. There are many excuses. Sorrow 
may be a softening medicine at last, but at first it is apt to 
be a hardening one ; and that savage outlaw life which 
they were leading can never have been a wholesome one 
for any soul of man, and its graces must have existed 
only in the brains of harpers and gleemen. Away fix)m 
law, firom self-restraint, firom refinement, fi'om el^ance, 
fix)m the very sound of a church-going bell, they were 
sinking gradually down to the level of the coarse men 



The Wake. 28f 

and women whom they saw; the worse and not the 
better parts of both their characters were getting the 
upper hand; and it was but too possible that after a 
while the hero might sink into the ruffian, the lady into a 
slattern and a shrew. 

But in justice to them be it said, that neither of them 
had complained of the other to any living soul. Their 
love had been as yet too perfect, too sacred, for them to 
confess to another (and thereby confess to themselves) 
that it could in any wise fail. They had each idolised 
the other, and been too proud of their idolatry to allow 
that their idol could crumble or decay. 

And yet at last that point too was reached. One day 
they were wrangling about somdwhat, as they too often 
wrangled, and Hereward in his temper let fall the words, 
" As I said to Winter the other day, you grow harder and 
harder upon me." 

Torfrida started and fixed on him wide terrible scorn- 
fill eyes. " So you complain of me to your boon com- 
panions ? " 

And she turned and went away without a word. A 
gulf had opened between them. They hardly spoke to 
each other for a week. 

Hereward complained of Torfrida 1 What if Torfrida 
should complain of Hereward? But to whom ? Not to 
the coarse women round her : her pride revolted from 
that thought : — ^and yet she longed for counsel, for sym- 



2S8 Hereward 

pathy, — ^to open her heart but to one fellow-woman. She 
would go to the Lady Godiva at Crowland, and take 
counsel of her, whether there was any method (for she 
put it to herself) of saving Hereward ; for she saw but 
too clearly that he was fast forgetting all her teaching, 
and falling back to a point lower than that even from 
which she had raised him up. 

To go to Crowland was not difficult. It was mid- 
winter. The dykes were all frozen. Hereward was out 
foraging in the Lincolnshire wolds. So Torfrida, taking 
advantage of his absence, proposed another foraging party 
to Crowland itself. She wanted stuff for clothes, 
needles, thread, what not. A dozeu stout fellows 
volunteered at once to lake her. The friendly monks of 
Crowland would feast them royally, and send them home 
heaped with all manner of good things ; while as for 
meeting Ivo Taillebois' men, if they had but three to one 
against them, there was a fair chance of killing a few, 
and carrying off their clothes and weapons, which would 
be usefuL So they made a sledge, tied beef bones 
underneath it, put Torfrida and the girl thereon, well 
wrapped in deer and fox and badger skin, and then 
putting on their skates, swept them over the fen to 
Crowland, singing like larks along the dykes. 

And Torfrida went in to Godiva, and wept upon her 
knees ; and Godiva wept likewise, and gave her such 
counsel as she could, — ^how if the woman will keep the 



TTie Wake. 289 

men heroic, she must keep herself not heroic only but 
devout likewise ; how she herself, by that one deed which 
had rendered her name famous then, and famous (though 
she never dreamt thereof) now and it may be to the end 
of time — ^had once for all, tamed, chained, and as it were, 
converted the heart of her fierce young lord ; and enabled 
her to train him in good time into the most wise, most 
just^ most pious, of all King £dward's £arls. 

And Torfrida said yes, and yes, and yes, and felt in her 
heart that she knew all that already. Had not she too 
taught, entreated, softened, civilized ) Had not she too 
spent her life upon a man, and that man a wolfs head 
and a landless outlaw, more utterly than Godiva could 
ever have spent hers on one who lived lapped in luxury, 
and wealth, and power % Torfrida had done her best ; and 
she had failed : or at least fancied in her haste that she 
had failed. 

What she wanted was not counsel, but love. And she 
clung round the Lady Godiva, till the broken and ruined 
widow opened all her heart to her, and took her in her 
arms, and fondled her as if she had been a babe. And 
the two women spoke few words after that, for indeed 
there was nothing to be said. Only at last, " My child, 
my child," cried Godiva, "better for thee, body and 
soul, to be here with me in the house of God, than there 
amid evil spirits and deeds of darkness in the wild 
woods." 

VOL. II. u 



290 Hereward 

" Not a cloister, not a cloister," cried Torfiida, shud- 
dering, and half struggling to get away. 

" It is the only place, poor wilful child, the only place 
this side the grave, in which we wretched creatures, who 
to our woe are women bom, can find aught of rest or 
peace. By us sin came into the world, and Eve's curse 
lies heavy on us to this day, and our desire is to our 
lords, and they rule over us ; and when the slave can 
work for her master no more, what better than to crawl 
into the house of God, and lay down our crosses at the 
foot of His cross, and die? You too will come here, 
Torfrida, some day, I know it well. You too will come 
here to rest." 

"Never, never," shrieked Torfiida, "never to these 
horrid vaults. I. will die in the fresh air. I will be 
buried under the green hollies ; and the nightingales, as 
they wander up from my own Provence, shall build and 
sing over my grave. Never, never ! " murmured she to 
herself all the more eagerly, because something within 
her said that it would come to pass. 

The two women went into the church to Matins, and 
prayed long and fervently. And at the early day-break, 
the party went back laden with good things and hearty- 
blessings, and caught one of Ivo Taillebois' men by the 
way, and slew him, and got off him a new suit of clothes 
in which the poor fellow was going courting; and so 
they got home safe into the Bruneswald. 



The Wake. 291 

But Torfrida had not found rest unto her soul. For 
^e first time in her life since she became the bride of 
Hereward, she had had a confidence concerning him 
4ind unknown to him. It was to his own mother — ^true. 
And yet she felt as if she had betrayed him : but then 
had he not betrayed her 1 And to Winter of all men % 

It might have been two months afterwards that Martin 
Lightfoot put a letter into Torfiida's hand. 

The letter was addressed to Hereward : but there was 

nothing strange in Martin's bringing it to his mistress. 

Ever since their marriage^ she had opened and generally 

answered the very few epistles with which her husband 

Tvas troubled. 

She was going to open this one as a matter of course, 
^hen glancing at the superscription she saw, or fancied 
she saw, that it was in a woman's hand. She looked at 
it again. It was sealed plainly with a woman's seal; 
and she looked up at Martin Lightfoot. She had re- 
marked as he gave her the letter a sly significant look in 
his face. 

"What dost thou know of this letter? " she inquired 
•sharply. 

" That it IS firom the Countess Alftruda, whosoever 
she may be." 

A chill struck through her heart. True, Alftruda had 
written before, only to warn Hereward of danger to his 
life, — ^and hers. She might be writing again^ only for the 

u 2 



292 Hereward 

same purpose. But still, she did not wish that either 
Hereward, or she, should owe Alftruda their lives, or 
an)rthing: They had struggled on through weal and woe 
without her, for many a year. Let them do so without 
her still. That Alftruda had once loved Hereward she 
knew well. Why should she not ? The wonder was to 
her that eveiy woman did not love him. But she had 
long since gauged Alftruda's character, and seen in it a 
persistence like her own, yet as she proudly hoped, of a 
lower temper ; the persistence of the base weasel, not of 
the noble hoimd : yet the creeping weasel might endure, 
and win, when the hound was tired out by his own 
gallant pace. And there was a something in the tone of 
Alftruda's last letter, which seemed to tell her that the 
weasel was still upon the scent of its game. But she was 
too proud to mistrust Hereward, or rather, to seem to 
mistrust him. And yet — ^how dangerous Alftruda might 
be as a rival, if rival she chose to be. She was up in the 
world now, free, rich, gay, beautiful, a favourite at Queen 
Matilda's court, while she 

" How came this letter into thy hands 1" asked she as 
carelessly as she could. 

" I was in Peterborough last night," said Martin, " con- 
cerning little matters of my own, and there came to me 
in the street a bonny young page with smart jacket on 
his back, smart cap on his head, and smiles and bows, 
and * You are one of Hereward's men,' quoth he. * Say 



Tke Wake, 293 

that again, young jackanapes,' said I, ' and 1*11 cut your 
tongue out,' whereat he took fright and all but cried. 
He was very sorry, and meant no harm, but he had a 
letter for my master, and he heard I was one of his men. 
^Who told him that?* Well, one of the monks, he 
could not justly say which, or wouldn*t, and I, thinking 
the letter of more importance than my own neck, ask 
him quietly into my friend*s house. There he pulls out 
this and five silver pennies, and I shall have five more 
if I bring an answer back : but to none than Hereward 
must I give it. With that I, calling my friend, who is 
an honest woman, and nigh as strong in the arms as 
I am, ask her to clap her back against the door, and 
pull out my axe. * Now,* said I, * I must know a little 
more about this letter. Tell me, knave, who gave it 
thee, or 1*11 split thy skull' The young man cries and 
blubbers ; and says that it is the Countess Alftruda, who 
is staying in the monastery, and that he is her serving 
man, and that it is as much as my life is worth to touch 
a hair of his head, and so forth, — so far so good. Then 
I asked him again, who told him I was my master*s 
man 1 — and he confessed that it was Herluin the prior, — 
he that was Lady Godiva's chaplain of old, whom my 
master robbed of his money when he had the cell of 
Bourne years agone. Very well, quoth I to myself, 
that's one more count on our score against Master 
Herluin. Then I asked him how Herluin and the Lady 



294 Hereward 

Alftruda came to know aught of each other? and he^ 
said that she had been questioning all about the monas- 
tery without Abbot Thorold's knowledge, for one that 
knew Hereward and favoured him well. That was all 
I could get from the knave, he cried so for fright. So 
I took his money and his letter, warning him that if he^ 
betrayed me, there were those who would roast himr 
alive before he was done with me. And so away over 
the town wall, and ran here five-and-twenty miles before 
breakfast, and thought it better as you see to give the 
letter to my lady first." 

" You have been officious," said Torfrida, coldly. " 'Tis 
addressed to your master. Take it to him.' Go." 

Martin Lightfoot whistled and obeyed, while Torfrida 
walked away proudly and silently with a beating heart. 

Again Godiva's words came over her. Should she- 
end in the convent of Crowland) And suspecting,, 
fearing, imagining all sorts of baseless phantoms, she 
hardened her heart into a great hardness. 

Martin had gone with the letter, and Torfrida never 
heard any more of it. 

So Hereward had secrets which he would not tell to* 
her. At last ! 

That, at least, was a misery, which she would not 
confide to Lady Godiva, or to any soul on earth. 

But a misery it was, such a misery as none can de- 
lineate, save those who have endured it themselves, or 



JTie Wake, 295 

had it confided to them by another. And happy are 
they, to whom neither has befallen. 

She wandered out and into the wild wood, and sat 
down by a spring. She looked in it — ^her only mirror — 
at her wan coarse face, with wild black elf locks hanging 
round it, and wondered whether Alftruda, in her luxury 
and prosperity, was still so very beautifiil. Ah, that 
that fountain were the fountain of Jouvence, the spring 
of perpetual youth, which all believed in those days to 
exist somewhere, — ^how would she plunge into it, and be 
young and fair once more ! 

No 1 she would not ! She had lived her life, and lived 
it well, gallantly, lovingly, l^oically. She had given 
that man her youth, her beauty, her wealth, her wit. 
He should not have them a second time. He had had 
his will of her. If he chose to throw her away when he 
had done with her, to prove himself base at last, un- 
worthy of all^ her care, her counsels, her training, — 
dreadful thought ! To have lived to keep that man for 
her own, and just when her work seemed done, to lose 
him ! No, there was worse than that. To have lived 
that she might make that man a perfect knight, and just 
when her work seemed done, to see him lose himself. 

And she wept till she could weep no more. Then 
she washed away her tears in that well. Had it been 
in Greece of old, it would have become a sacred 
well thenceforth, and Torfrida's tears have changed into 



296 Hereward 

forget-me-nots, and fringed its marge with azure ever- 
more. 

Then she went back, calm, all but cold : but deter- 
mined not to betray herself let him do what he would. 
Perhaps it was all a mistake, a fancy. At least she 
would not degrade him, and herself, by showing sus- 
picion. It would be dreadful, shameful to herself, 
wickedly unjust to him, to accuse him were he innocent 
after all. 

Hereward, she remarked, was more kind to her now. 
But it was a kindness which she did not like. It was 
shy, faltering, as of a man guilty and ashamed \ and she 
repelled it as much as she dared, and then, once ot 
twice, returned it passionately, madly, in hopes 

But he never spoke a word of that letter. 

After a dreadful month, Martin came mysteriously to 
her again. She trembled, for she had remarked in him 
lately a strange change. He had lost his usual loquacity, 
and quaint humour ; and had fallen back into that sullen 
taciturnity which, so she heard, he had kept up in his 
youth. He, too, must know evil which he dared not tell. 

" There is another letter come. It came last night," 
said he. 

" What is that to thee or me ? My lord has his state 
secrets. Is it for us to pry into them \ Go." 

" I thought— I thought '' 

"Go, I say!" 



The Wake, 297 

**That your ladyship might wish for a guide to 
Crowland." 

"Crowlandl" almost shrieked Torfrida, for the 
thought of Crowland had risen in her own wretched 
mind instantly and involimtarily. " Go, madman ! " 

Martin went. Torfrida paced madly up and down the 
iarm-house. Then she settled herself into fierce despair. 

There was a noise of trampling horses outside. The 
men were arming and saddling, seemingly for a raid. 

Hereward hurried in for his armour. When he saw 
Torfrida, he blushed scarlet. 

" You want your arms," said she, quietly ; " let me 
fetch them." 

"No, never mind. I can harness myself; I am going 
south-west, to pay Taillebois a visit. I am in a great 
hurry. I shall be back in three days. Then — good-bye." 

He snatched his arms off a perch, and hurried out 
again, dragging them on. As he passed her, he offered 
to kiss her ; she put him back, and helped him on with 
his armour, while he thanked her confusedly. 

" He was as glad not to kiss me, after all ! " 

She looked after him as he stood, his hand on his 
horse's withers. How noble he looked ! And a great 
yearning came over her. To throw her arms roimd his 
neck once, and then to stab herself, and set him free, 
dying, as she had lived, for hinu 

Two bonny boys were wrestling on the lawn, young 



2gS Hereward 

outlaws who haxi grown up in the forest with ruddy 
cheeks and iron limbs. 

" Ah, Winter !" she heard him say, " had I had such 
a boy as that ! " 

She heard no more. She turned away, her heart dead 
within her. She knew all that those words implied, in 
days when the possession of land was everything to the 
free man ; and the possession of a son necessary, to pass 
that land on in the ancestral line. Only to have a son ; 
only to prevent the old estate passing, with an heiress, 
into the hands of strangers, what crimes did not men 
commit in those days, and find themselves excused for 
them in public opinion ? And now, her other children 
(if she ever had any), had died in childhood; the little 
Torfrida, named after herself, was all that she had 
brought to Hereward ; and he was the last of his house. 
In him the race of Leofric, of Godiva, of Earl Oslac, 
would become extinct; and that girl would marry — ^whoml 
Whom but some French conqueror, — or at best some 
English outlaw. In either case Hereward would have 
no descendants for whom it was worth his while to 
labour or to fight. What wonder if he longed for a son, 
-—and not a son of hers, the barren tree, — ^to pass his 
name down to future generations ? It might be worth 
while, for that, to come in to the king, to recover his 

lands, to . She saw it all now, and her heart was 

dead within her. 



J 



Tie Wake. 299- 

She spent that evening, neither eating nor drinking^ 
but sitting over the log embers, her head upon her hand^, 
and thinking over all her past life and love, since she 
saw him, from the gable window, ride the first time into 
St. Omer. She went through it all, with a certain stem 
delight in the self-torture, deliberately day by day, year 
by year, — ^all its lofiy aspirations, all its blissful passages, 
all its deep disappointments, and found in it, — so she 
chose to fancy in the wilfulness of her misery, nothing 
but cause for remorse. Self in all, vanity, and vexation 
of spirit ; for herself she had loved him j for herself she 
had tried to raise him ; for herself she had set her heart 
on man, and not on God. She had sown the wind : and 
behold, she had reaped the whirlwind. She could not 
repent; she could not pray. But oh! that she could 
die. 

She was unjust to herself, in her great nobleness. It 
was not true, not half, not a tenth part true. But perhaps 
it was good for her that it should seem true, for that 
moment ; that she should be emptied of all earthly things 
for once, if so she might be filled firom above. 

At last she went into the inner room to lie down and 
try to sleep. At her feet, under the perch where Here- 
ward's armour had hung, lay an open letter. 

She picked it up, surprised at seeing such a thing 
there, and kneeling down, held it eagerly to the wax 
candle which was on a spike at the bed's head. 



300 Hereward 

She knew the handwriting in a moment. It was 
Alftruda's. 

This, then, was why Hereward had been so strangely 
hurried. He must have had that letter and dropped it. 

Her mind and eye took it all in in one instant, as 
the lightning flash reveals a whole landscape. And then 
her mind became as dark as that landscape when the 
flash is past 

It congratulated Hereward on having shaken himself 
free from the fascinations of that sorceress. It said that 
all was settled with King William. Hereward was to 
come to Winchester. She had the King's writ for his 
safety ready to send to him. The King would receive 
him as his liegeman. Alftruda would receive him as her 
husband. Archbishop Lanfranc had made diflftculties 
about the dissolution of the marriage with Torfrida : but 
gold would do all things at Rome ; and Lanfranc was her 
very good friend, and a reasonable man — and so forth. 

Men, and beasts likewise, when stricken with a mortal 
wound, will run, and run on, blindly, aimless, impelled 
by the mere instinct of escape from intolerable agony. , 
And so did Torfrida. Half undrest as she was, she fled 
forth into the forest, she knew not whither, running as 
one does wrapt in fire : but the fire was not without her, 
but within. 

She cast a passing glance at the girl who lay by her, 
sleeping a pure and gentle sleep 



The Wake. 301 

" Oh, that thou hadst but been a boy ! *' Then she 
thought no more of her, not even of Hereward : but all 
of which she was conscious was a breast and brain burst- 
ing ; an intolerable choking, from which she must escape. 

She ran, and ran on, for miles. She knew not whether 
the night was light or dark, warm or cold. Her tender 
feet might have been ancle deep in snow. The branches 
over her head might have been howHng in the tempest, 
or dripping with rain. She knew not, and heeded not. 
The owls hooted to each other under the staring moon, 
but she heard them not. The wolves glared at her from 
the brakes, and slunk off appalled at the white ghostly 
figure : but she saw them not. The deer stood at gaze 
in the glades till she was close upon them, and then 
bounded into the wood. She ran right at them, past 
them, heedless. She had but one thought. To flee 
from, the agony of a soul alone in the universe with its 
own misery. 

At last she was aware of a man close beside her. He 
had been following her a long way, she recollected now : 
but she had not feared him, even heeded him. But 
when he laid his hand upon her arm, she turned fiercely: 
but without dread. ^ 

She looked to see if it was Hereward. To meet him 
would be death. If it were not he she cared not who it 
was. It was not Hereward \ and she cried angrily, 
"Off! Oflf!" and hurried on. 



^02 Hereward 

"But you are going the wrong way! The wrong 
way ! " said the voice of Martin Lightfoot 

" The wrong way \ Fool, which is the right way for 
me, save the path which leads to a land where all is 
forgotten % ** 

"To Crowland! To Crowland! To the minster! 
To the monks ! That is the only right way for poor 
wretches in a world like this. The Lady Godiva told 
you you must go to Crowland. And now you are going. 
I too, I ran away from a monastery when I was young; 
and now I am going back. Come along ! " 

" You are right ! Crowland, Crowland ; and a nun's 
cell till death. Which is the way, Martin 1" 

" Oh, a wise lady ! A reasonable lady ! But you will 
be cold before you get thither. There will be a frost ere 
mom. So when I saw you run out, I caught up some- 
thing to put over you." 

Torfirida shuddered, as Martin wrapt her in the white 
bear-skin. 

"No! Not that! Anything but that!" and she 
struggled to shake it off. 

"Then you will be dead ere dawn. Folks that run 
wild in the forest thus, for but one night, die." 

" Would God I could die ! " 

" That shall be as He wills : you do not die while 
Martin can keep you alive. Why, you are staggering 
already." 



The Wake. 303 

Martin caught her up in his arms^ threw her over his 
shoulder as if she had been a child, and hurried on, in 
the strength of madness. 

At last he 'stopped at a cottage door, set her down 
upon the turf, and knocked loudly. 

" Grimkel Tolison ! Grimkel, I say ! " 

And Martin burst the door open with his foot 

" Give me a horse, on your life," said he to the man 
inside. "I am Martin, The Wake's man, upon my 
master's business." 

" What is mine is The Wake's God bless him," said 
the man, struggling into a garment, and hurrying out to 
the shed. 

'' There is a ghost against the gate ! " cried he, 
recoiling. 

" That is my matter, not yours. Get me a horse to 
put the ghost upon." 

Torfrida lay against the gate-post, exhausted now: 
but quite unable to think. Martin lifted her on to the 
beast, and led her onward, holding her up again and 
again. 

"You are tired. You had run four miles before I 
could make you hear me." 

" Would I had run four thousand ! " And she, 
relapsed into stupor. 

They passed out of the forest, across open wolds, and 
at last down to the river. Martin knew of a boat there. 



304 Hercward 

He lifted her from the horse, turned him loose, put 
Torfrida into the boat, and took the oars. 

She looked up, and saw the roofs of Bourne shining 
white in the moonlight. 

And then she lifted up her voice, and shrieked three 

times, 

" Lost ! Lost ! Lost ! " 

with such a dreadful cry, that the starlings whirred up 
from the reeds, and the wild fowl rose clanging off the 
meres, and the watch-dogs in Bourne and Mainthorpe 
barked and howled, and folk told fearfully next morning, 
how a white ghost had gone down from the forest to the 
fen, and wakened them with its unearthly scream. 

The sun was high when they came to Crowland 
minster. Torfrida had neither spoken nor stirred ; and 
Martin, who in the midst of his madness kept a strange 
courtesy and delicacy, had never disturbed her, save to 
wrap the bear-skin more closely over her. 

When they came to the bank, she rose, stepped out 
without his help, and drawing the bear-skin closely 
round her, and over her head, walked straight up to the 
gate of the house of nuns. 

All men wondered at the white ghost : but Martin 
walked behind her, his left finger on his lips, his right 
hand grasping his little axe, with such a stem and 
serious face, and so fierce an eye, that all drew back in 
silence, and let her pass. 



The Wake. 305 

The portress looked through the wicket 

" I am Torfrida," said a voice of terrible calm. " I 
am come to see the Lady Godiva. Let me in." 

The portress opened, utterly astounded. 

" Madam \ " said Martin eagerly, as Torfrida entered. 

"What? What?" she seemed to waken from a 
dream. "God bless thee, thou good and faithful 
servant;" and she turned again. 

"Madam? Say!" 

"What?" 

" Shall I go back, and kill him ? " And he held out 
the little axe. 

Torfrida snatched it from his grasp with a shriek, and 
cast it inside the convent door. 

" Mother Mary and aU saints ! " cried the portress, 
" your garments are in rags, madam I " 

" Never mind. Bring me garments of yours. I shall 
need none other till I die ! " and she walked in and on. 

" She is come to be a nun ! " whispered the portress 
to the next sister, and she again to the next ; and they 
all gabbled, and lifted up their hands and eyes, and 
thanked all the saints of the calendar, over the blessed 
and miraculous conversion of the Lady Torfrida, and the 
wealth which she would probably bring to the convent. 

Torfrida went straight on, speaking to no one, 
not even to the prioress; and into Lady Godiva's 
chamber. 

VOL. 11. X 



3o6 Hereward 

There she dropped at the countess's feet, and laid her 
head upon her knees. 

''I am come, as you always told me I should do. 
But it has been a long way hither, and I am very tired." 

" My child ! What is this \ What brings you here 1 '^ 

" I am doing penance for my sins." 

" And your feet all cut and bleeding." 
^f " Are they 1 '* said Torfrida vacantly. " I will tell yea 
all about it when I wake." 
, [['And she fell fast asleep, with her head in Godiva's lap.. 

The countess did not speak or stir. She beckoned 
the good prioress, who had followed Torfrida in, to go 
away. She saw that something dreadful had happened ; 
and prayed as she awaited the news. 

Torfrida slept for a full hour. Then she awoke with, 
a start. 

" Where am I ? Hereward \ " 

Then followed a dreadful shriek, which made every 
nun in that quiet house shudder, and thank God that 
she knew nothing of those agonies of soul, which were 
the lot of the foolish virgins who married and were given 
in marriage themselves, instead of waiting with oil in 
their lamps for the true Bridegroom. 

"I recollect all now," said Torfrida. "Listen I '*^ 
And she told the countess all, with speech so calm and 
clear, that Godiva was awed by the power and spirit of 
that marvellous woman. 



The Wake, 307 

But she groaned in bitterness of soul. " Anything but 
this. Rather death from him than treachery. This last, 
worst woe had God kept in his quiver for me most 
miserable of woman. And now his bolt has fallen ! 
Hereward ! Hereward ! That thy mother should wish 
her last child laid in his grave ! " 

" Not so," said Torfrida, " it is well as it is. How 
better ? It is his only chance for comfort, for honour, 
for life itself. He would have grown a 1 was grow- 
ing bad and foul myself in that ugly wilderness. Now 
he will be a knight once more among knights, and win 
himself fresh honour in fresh fields. Let him marry hen 
Why not ? He can get a dispensation from the Pope, 
and then there will be no sin in it, you know. If the 
Holy Father cannot make wrong right, who can % Yes. 
It is very well as it is. And I am very well where I am. 
Women! Bring me scissors, and one of your nun's 
dresses. I am come to be a nun like you." 

Godiva would have stopped her. But Torfrida rose 
upon her knees, and calmly made a solemn vow, which 
though canonically void without her husband's consent, 
would, she well knew, never be disputed by any there : 
and as for him, — " He has lost me ; and for ever. 
Torfrida never gives herself away twice." 

" There's carnal pride in those words, my poor child," 

said Godiva. 

. " Cruel ! " said she proudly. " When I am sacrificing 

myself utterly for him." 

X 2 



3o8 Hereward 

« And thy poor girl 1 " 

"He will let her come hither," said Torfirida, with 
forced calm. "He will see that it is not fit that she 
should grow up with — yes, he will send her to me— to 
us. And I shall live for her — and for you. If you will 
let me be your bower woman, dress you, serve you, read 
to you. You know that I am a pretty scholar. You 
will let me, mother! I may call you mother, may I 
noti" And Torfrida fondled the old woman's thm 
hands. , " For I do want so much something to love." 

" Love thy heavenly Bridegroom, the only love worthy 
of woman 1 " said Godiva, as her tears fell fast on 
Torfrida's head. 
She gave a half-impatient toss. 
" That may come, in good time. As yet it is enough 
to do, if I can keep down this devil here in my throat 
Women, bring me the scissors." 

And Torfrida cut off her raven locks, now streaked 
with grey ; and put on the nun's dress, and became a 
nun thenceforth. 

On the second day there came to Crowland Leofric 
the priest, and with him the poor child. 

She had woke in the morning and found no mother. 
Leofric and the other men searched the woods roimd, 
far and wide. The girl mounted her horse, and would go 
with them. Then they took a bloodhound, and he led 
them to GrimkeFs hut. There they heard of Martin* 



The Wake. 309 

The^ghost must have been Torfrida. Then the hound 
brought them to the river. And they divined at once 
that she was gone to Crowland, to Godiva : but why, 
they could not guess. 

Then the girl insisted, prayed, at last commanded them 
to take her to Crowland. And to Crowland they came. 

Leofric left the girl at the nuns* house door, and went 
into the monastery, where he had friends enow, run- 
away and regenade as he was. As he came into the 
great court, whom should he meet but Martin Lightfoot, 
in a lay brother's frock. 

" Aha ? And are you come home likewise ? Have 
you renounced the devil and this last work of his 1 " 

" What work 1 What devill" asked Leofric, who saw 
method in Martin's madness. " And what do you here 
in a long frock 1 " 

" Devil ? Hereward the devil. I would have killed 
him with my axe : but she got it from me, and threw it 
in among the holy sisters, and I had work to get it 
again. Shame on her, to spoil my chance of heaven. 
For I should surely have won heaven, you know, if I 
had killed the devil." 

After much beating about, Leofric got from Martin 
the whole tragedy. 

And when he heard it, he burst out weeping. 

" Oh, Hereward, Hereward ! Oh, knightly honour ! 
Oh, faith and troth, and gratitude, and love in return 



310 Hereward 

I 

for such love as might have tamed lions, and made 
tyrants mild ! Are they all carnal vanities, works of the 
weak flesh, bruised reeds which break when they are 
leaned upon 1 If so, you are right, Martin ; and there is 
nought left, but to flee from a world in which all men 
are liars." 

And Leofric, in the midst of Crowland Yard, tore off 
his belt and trusty sword, his hauberk and helm also, 
and letting down his monk's frock, which he wore trussed 
to the mid-knee, he went to the abbot's lodgings, and 
asked to see old Ulfketyl. 

" Bring him up," said the good abbot, " for he is a 
valiant man and true, in spite of all his vanities ; and 
may be, he brings news of Hereward, whom God for- 
give." 

And when Leofric came in, he fell upon his knees, 
bewailing and confessing his sinful life ; and begged the 
abbot to take him back again into Crowland minster, 
and lay upon him what penance he thought fit, and put 
him in the lowest oflice, because he was a man of blood ; 
if only he might stay there, and have a sight at times 
of his dear Lady Torfrida, without whom he should 
surely die. 

So Leofiic was received back, in full chapter, by 
abbot, and prior, and all the monks. But when he 
asked them to lay a penance upon him, Ulfketyl arose 
from his high chair, and spoke. 



The Wake. 311 

" Shall we, who have sat here at ease, lay a penance 
•on this man, who has shed his blood in fifty valiant 
fights for us, and for St. Guthlac, and for this English 
land 1 Look at yon scars upon his head and arms. He 
has had sharper discipline from cold steel than we could 
give him here with rod ; and has fasted in the wilderness 
more sorely, many a time, than we have fasted here." 

*And all the monks agreed, that no penance should 
be laid on Leofric. Only that he should abstain from 
singing vain and carnal ballads, which turned the heads 
of the young brothers, and made them dream of nought 
hvX battles, and giants, and enchanters, and ladies' love. 

Hereward came back on the third day, and found 
his wife and daughter gone. His guilty conscience told 
him in the first instance why. For he went into the 
chamber, and there, upon the floor, lay the letter which 
he had looked for in vain. 

None had touched it where it lay. Perhaps no one 
had dared to enter the chamber. If they had, they 
would not have dared to meddle with writing, which 
they could not read, and which might contain some 
magic spell. Letters were very safe in those old days. 

There are moods of man which no one will dare to 
describe, unless like Shakspeare, he is Shakspeare, and 
like Shakspeare knows it not. 

Therefore what Hereward thought and felt will not be 
*old. What he did, was this. 



312 Hereward 

He raged and blustered. He must hide his shame. 
He must justify himself to his knights ; and much more 
to himself : or if not justify himself, must shift some of 
the blame over to the opposite side. So he raged 
and blustered. He had been robbed of his wife and 
daughtei:. They had been cajoled away by the monks 
of Crowland. What villains were those to rob an 
honest man of his family while he was fighting for his 
country 1 

So he rode down to the river, and there took two great 
barges, and rowed away to Crowland, with forty men-at- 
arms. 

And all the while he thought of Alftruda, as he had 
seen her at Peterborough. 

And of no one else 1 

Not so. For all the while he felt that he loved Tor- 
frida's little finger better than Alftruda's whole body, 
and soul into the bargain. 

What a long way it was to Crowland. How wearying 
were the hours through mere and ea. How wearying 
the monotonous pulse of the oars. If tobacco had been 
known then, Hereward would have smoked all the way, 
and been none the wiser, though the happier, for it ; for 
the herb that drives away the evil spirits of anxiety, 
drives away also the good, though stem, spirits of re- 
morse. 

But in those days a man could only escape facts by 



The Wake. 313 

drinjdng ; and Hereward was too much afraid of what 
he should meet in Crowland, to go thither drunk. 

Sometimes he hoped that Torfrida might hold her 
purpose, and set him free to follow his wicked will. All 
the lower nature in him, so long crushed under, leapt 
up chuckling and grinning and tumbling head over 
heels, and cried — Now I shall have a holiday ! 

Sometimes he hoped that Torfrida might come out to 
the shore, and settle the matter in one moment, by a 
glance of her great hawk's eyes. If she would but quell 
him by one look \ leap on board, seize the helm, and 
assume without a word the command of his men and 
him ; steer them back to Bourne, and sit down beside 
him with a kiss, as if nothing had happened. If she 
would but do that, and ignore the past, would he not 
ignore it ? Would he not forget Alftruda, and King 
WilHam, and all the world, and go up with her into 
Sherwood, and then north to Scotland and Gospatric, 
and be a man once more ) 

No. He would go with her to the Baltic or the Medi- 
terranean. Constantinople and the Varangers would be 
the place and the men. Ay, there to escape out of that 
charmed ring into a new Hfe. 

No. He did not deserve such luck ; and he would 
not get it. ^he would talk it all out. She must, for 
she was a woman. She would blame, argue, say diead- 
ful words — dreadful, because true and deserved. Then 



.314 Hereward 

she would grow angry, as women do when they are jnost 
in the right, and say too much — still more dreadful 
words, which would be untrue and undeserved. Then he 
should resist, recriminate. He would not stand it He 
could not stand it No. He could never face her again. 

And yet if he had seen a man insult her — ^if he had 
seen her at that moment in peril of the slightest danger, 
the slightest bruise, he would have rushed forward like 
a madman, and died, saving her from that bruise. And 
he knew that : and with the strange self-contradiction of 
human nature, he soothed his own conscience by the 
thought that he loved her still; and that, therefore— 
somehow or other, he cared not to make out how — ^he 
had done her no wrong. Then he blustered again, for 
the benefit of his men. He would teach these monks 
of Crowland a lesson. He would bum the minster over 
their heads. 

"That would be pity, seeing they are the only English- 
men left in England," said Siward the White, his nephew, 
very simply. 

" What is that to thee 1 Thou hast helped to bum 
Peterborough at my bidding; and thou shalt help to 
bum Crowland." 

" I am a free gentleman of England ; and what I 
<:hoose, I do. I and my brother are going; to Constan- 
tinople to join the Varanger guard, and shall not bum 
<I!rowland, or let any man bum it" 



The Wake. 315 

« Shall not let V 

" No," said the young man, so quietly, that Hereward 
was cowed. 

" I — I only meant — ^if they did not do right by me." 

" Do right thyself," said Siward. 

Hereward swore awfully, and laid his hand on his 
sword-hilt. But he did not draw it ; for he thought he 
saw overhead a cloud which was very like the figure of 
St. Guthlac in Crowland window, and an awe fell upon 
him from above. 

So they came to Crowland; and Hereward landed 
and beat upon the gates, and spoke high words. But 
the monks did not open the gates for awhile. At last the 
gates creaked, and opened \ and in the gateway stood 
Abbot Ulfketyl in his robes of state, and behind him the 
Prior, and all the officers, and all the monks of the house, 

" Comes Hereward in peace or in war ?" 

" In war ! " said Hereward. 

Then that true and trusty old man, who sealed his 
patriotism, if not with his blood — for the very Normans 
had not the heart to take that — still with long and bitter 
sorrows, lifted up his head, and said, like a valiant Dane, 
as his name bespoke him, " Against the traitor and the 
adulterer " 

"I am neither," roared. Hereward. 

" Thou wouldst be, if thou couldst. Who so looketh 
upon a woman to ^" 



3i6 Hereward 

" Preach me no sermons, man ! Let me in to seek 
my wife." 

"Over my body," said Ulfketyl, and laid himself 
down across the threshold. 

Hereward recoiled. If he had dared to step over 
that sacred body, there was not a blood-stained ruffian 
in his crew who dared to follow him. 

" Rise, rise ! for God's sake, Lord Abbot," said he. 
" Whatever I am, I need not that you should disgrace 
me thus. Only let me see her — reason with her." 

" She has vowed herself to God, and is none of thine 
henceforth." 

" It is against the canons. A wrong and a robbery.** 

Ulfketyl rose, grand as ever, 

" Hereward Leofricsson, our joy and our glory once. 
Hearken to the old man who will soon go whither thine 
Uncle Brand is gone, and be free of Frenchmen, and of 
all this wicked world. "When the walls of Crowland 
dare not shelter the wronged woman, fleeing from 
man's treason to God's faithfulness, then let the roofs 
of Crowland bum till the flame reaches heaven, for 
a sign that the children of God are as false as the 
children of this world, and break their faith like any 
belted knight." 

Hereward was silenced. His men shrunk back from 
him. He felt as if God, and the mother of God, and 
St. Guthlac, and all the host of heaven, were shrinking 



JTie Wake, 317 

back from him likewise. He turned to supplications, 
compromises — ^what else was left. 

" At least you will let me have speech of her, or of 
my mother 1 " 

" They must answer that, not I." 

Hereward sent in, entreating to see one, or both. 

"Tell him," said Lady Godiva, "who calls himself my 
son, that my sons were men of honour, and that he must 
have been changed at nurse." 

" Tell him," said Torfrida, '* that I have lived my life, 
and am dead. Dead. If he would see me, he will only 
see my corpse." 

" You would not slay yourself?" 

"What is there that I dare not dof You do not 
know Torfrida. He does." 

And Hereward did ; and went back again like a man 
stunAed. 

After awhile there came by boat to Crowland all 
Torfrida's wealth; clothes, jewels: not a shred had 
Hereward kept The magic armour came with them. 

Torfrida gave all to the abbey, there and then. Only 
the armour she wrapped up in the white bear's skin, and 
sent it back to Hereward, with her blessing, and entreaty 
not to reftise that, her last bequest. 

Hereward did not reftise, for very shame. But for 
very shame he never wore that armour more. For very 
shame he never slept again upon the white bear's skin. 



3iS 



Hereward 



on which he and his true love had lain so many a 
year. 

And Torfrida turned herself utterly to serve the Lady 
Godiva, and to teach and train her child as she had 
never done before, while she had to love Hereward, and 
to work day and night, with her own fingers, for all his 
men. All pride, all fierceness, all care of self, had 
passed away from her. In penitence, humility, obe- 
dience, and gentleness, she went on : never smiling : but 
never weeping. Her heart was broken ; and she felt it 
good for herself to let it break. 

And Leofric the priest, and mad Martin Lightfoot^ 
watched like two dogs for her going out and coming in ; 
and when she went among the old corrodiers, and 
nursed the sick, and taught the children, and went to 
and fro upon her holy errands, blessing and blessed, the 
two wild men had a word firom her mouth, or a kiss of 
her hand, and were happy all the day after. For they 
loved her with a love mightier than ever Hereward had 
heaped upon her ; for she had given him all ; but she 
had given those two wild men nought but flie beatific 
vision of a noble woman. 



The Wake. 319. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

HOW HEREWARD LOST SWORD BRAINBITER. 

" On account of which," says the chronicler, " many 
troubles came to Hereward : because Torfrida was most 
wise, and of great counsel in need. For afterwards, as 
he himself confessed, things went not so well With him 
as they did in her time." 

And the first thing that went ill was this. He was 
riding through the Bruneswald, and behind him Geri^ 
Wenoch, and Matelgar, these three. And there met 
him in an open glade a knight, the biggest man he had 
ever seen, on the biggest horse, and five knights behind 
him. He was an Englishman, and not a Frenchman, by 
his dress j and Hereward spoke courteously enough to 
him. But who he was, and what his business was in the 
Bruneswald, Hereward thought that he had a right to 
ask. 

" Tell me who thou art who askest, before I tell thee 
who I am who am asked, riding here on common land,'* 
quoth the knight, surlily enough. 



320 Hereward 

"I am Hereward, without whose leave no man has 
ridden the Bruneswald for many a day." 

" And I am Letwold the Englishman, who rides 
whither he will in merry England, without care for 
any Frenchman upon earth." 

" Frenchman 1 Why callest thou me Frenchman, 
man ] I am Hereward." 

" Then thou art, if tales be true, as French as Ivo 
Taillebois. I hear that thou hast left thy true lady, like 
a fool and a churl, and goest to London, or Winchester, 
or the nether pit — I care not which — ^to make thy peace 
with The Mamzer." 

The man was a surly brute : but what he said was so 
true, that Hereward's wrath arose. He had promised 
Torfrida many a time, never to quarrel with an English- 
man, but to endure all things. Now, out of very spite 
to Torfrida's counsel, because it was Torfrida's, and he 
had promised to obey it, he took up the quarrel. 

" If I am a fool and a churl, thou art a greater fool, to 
provoke thine own death ; and a greater ^" 

" Spare your breath," said the big man, " and let me 
try Hereward, as I have many another." 

Whereon they dropped their lance-points, and rode at 
each other like two mad bulls. And, by the contagion 
of folly common in the middle age, at each other rode 
Hereward's three knights and Letwold's five. The two 
leaders found themselves both rolling on the ground; 



The Wake. 321 

jumped up, drew their swords, and hewed away at each 
other. Geri unhorsed his man at the first charge, and 
left him stunned. Then he turned on another, and did 
the same by him. Wenoch and Matelgar each overthrew 
their man. The fifth of Letwold's knights threw up his 
lance-point, not liking his new company. Geri and the 
other two rode in on the two chiefs, who were fighting 
hard, each imder shield. 

"Stand back !" roared Hereward, "and give the knight 
fair play ! When did any one of us want a man to help 
him ? Kill or die single, has been our rule, and shall be.'^ 

They threw up their lance-points, and stood round to 
see that great fight. Letwold's knight rode in among 
them, and stood likewise ; and friend and foe looked on, 
as they might at a pair of game cocks. 

Hereward had, to his own surprise and that of his 
fellows, met his match. The sparks flew, the iron 
Clanged : but so heavy were the stranger's strokes, that 
Hereward reeled again and again. So sure was the 
guard of his shield, that Hereward could not wound 
him, hit where he would. At last he dealt a furious 
blow on the stranger's head. 

" If that does not bring your master down'j " quoth 
Geri " By y Brainbiter is gone ! " 

It was too true. Sword Brainbiter's end was come. 
The Ogre's magic blade had snapt oflf short by the hilt. 

" Your master is a true Englishman, by the hardness 

Y 



322 Hereward 

of his brains," quoth Wenoch, as the stranger, reeling 
for a moment, lifted up his head, and stared at Hereward 
in the face, doubtful what to do. 

" Will you yield, or fight on 1 " cried he. 

"Yield?" shouted Hereward, rushing upon him, as a 
mastiff might on a lion, and striking at his helm, though 
shorter than him by a head and shoulders, such swift and 
terrible blows with the broken hilt, as staggered the tall 
stranger. 

"What are you at, forgetting what you have at your 
side 1" roared Geri. 

Hereward sprang back. He had» as was his custom, 
a second sword on his right thigh. 

" I forget everything now," said he to himself angrily. 

And that was too true. But he drew the second 
sword, and sprang at his man once more. 

The stranger tried, according to the chronicler, who 
probably had it from one of the three bystanders, a blow 
which has cost many a bmve man his life. He struck 
right down on Hereward's head. Hereward raised his 
shield, warding the stroke, and threw in that coup de 
jarret, which there is no guarding, after the downright 
blow has been given. The stranger dropped upon his 
wounded knee. 

" Yield," cried Hereward in his turn. 

" That is not my fashion." And the stranger fought 
on upon his stumps, like Witherington in Chevy Chase. 



The Wake. 323 

Hereward, mad with the sight of blood, struck at him 
four or five times. The stranger's guard was so quick 
that he could not hit him, even on his knee. He held 
his hand, and drew back, looking at his new rival. 

" What the murrain are we two fighting about % " said 
he, at last 

**I know not; neither care," said the other, with a 
grim chuckle. '^But if any man will fight me, him I 
fight, ever since I had beard to my chin." 

" Thou art the best mian that ever I faced." 

" That is like enough." 

" What wilt thou take, if I give thee thy life ? " 

" My way on which I was going. For I turn back for 
no man alive on land." 

" Then thou hast not had enough of me 1 " 

" Not by another hour." 

" Thou must be bom of fiend, and not of man." 

"Very like. It is a wise son knows his own father." 

Hereward burst out laughing. 

" Would to heaven I had had thee for my man this 
three years since." 

" Perhaps I would not have been thy man," 

« Why not 1" 

" Because I have been my own man ever since I was 
bom, and am well content with myself for my master." 

"Shall I bind up thy leg?" asked Hereward, having 
no more to say, and not wishing to kill the man. 

Y 2 



324 Hereward 

" No. It will grow again, like a crab's claw." 
" Thou art a fiend." And Hereward turned away, 
sulky, and half afraid. 

" Very like. No man knows what a devil he is, till 
he tries." 

" What dost meani" and Hereward turned angrily back. 
" Fiends we are all, till God's grace comes." 
" Little grace has come to thee yet, by thy ungracious 
tongue." 

" Rough to men, may be gracious to women." 
"What hast thou to do with women?" asked Here- 
ward fiercely. 
" I have a wife, and I love her." 
" Thou art not like to get back to her to-day." 
" I fear not, with this paltry scratch. I had looked 
for a cut firom thee, would have saved me all fighting 
henceforth." 
*' What dost mean ? " asked Hereward with an oath. 
" That my wife is in heaven, and I would needs follow 
her." 

Hereward got on his horse, and rode away. Never 
could he find out who that Sir Letwold was, or how he 
came into the Bruneswald. All he knew was, that he 
never had had such a fight since he wore beard ; and 
that he had lost sword Brainbiter : firom which his evil 
conscience augured that his luck had turned, and that 
he should lose many things beside. 



Tke Wake. 325. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

HOW HEREWARD CAME IN TO THE KING. 

After these things Hereward summoned all his men, 
and set before them the hopelessness of any fmther 
resistance, and the promises of amnesty, lands, and 
honours which William had offered him ; and persuaded 
them — and indeed he had good arguments enough and 
to spare — that they should go and make their peace 
with the king. 

They were so accustomed to look up to his determina- 
tion, that when it gave way theirs gave way likewise. 
ThjBy were so accustomed to trust his wisdom, that most 
of them yielded at once to his arguments. 

That the band should break up, all agreed. A few of 
the more suspicious, or more desperate, said that they 
could never trust the Frenchman ; that Hereward himself 
had warned them again and again of his treachery; . 
that he was now going to do himself what he had 
laughed at Gospatric and the rest for doing ; what had 
brought ruin on Edwin and Morcar ; what he had again 



3t6 Hereward 

and again prophesied would bring ruin on Waltheof 
himself ere all was over. 

But Hereward was deaf to their arguments. He had 
said as little to them as he could about Alftruda, for 
very shame : but he was utterly besotted on her. For 
her sake, he had determined to run his head blindly 
into the very snare of which he had warned others; 
And he had seared — so he fancied — ^his conscience. It 
was Torfrida's fault now, not his. If she left him — ^if she 
herself freed him of her own will — ^why, he was free, and 
there was no more to be said about it 

And Hereward (says the chronicler) took Gwehoch, 
Geri, and Matelgar, and rode south to tho king. 

Where were the two young Siwards % It is not said. 
Probably they, and a few desperadoes, followed the 
fashion of so many English in those sad days — ^when, as 
sings the Norse scald, 

" Cold heart and bloody hand 
Now rule English land,** 

and took ship for Constantinople, and enlisted in the 
Varanger-guard, and died full of years and honours, 
leaving fair-haired children behind them, to become 
Vaiangers in their turn. 

Be that as it may, Hereward rode south. But when 
he had gotten a long way upon the road, a fancy (says 
the chronicler) came over him. He was not going in 



The Wake. 327 

pomp and glory enough. It seemed mean for the once 
great Hereward to sneak into Winchester with three 
knights. Perhaps it seemed not over safe for the once 
great Hereward to travel with only three knights. So he 
went back all the way to camp, and took (says the chro- 
nicler) "forty most famous knights, all big and tall of 
stature, and splendid — if from nothing else, from their 
looks and their harness alone." 

So Hereward and those forty knights rode down from 
Peterborough, along the Roman road. For the Roman 
roads were thei^ and for centuries after, the only roads in 
this land ; and our forefathers looked on them as the 
work of gods and giants, and called them after the names 
of their old gods and heroes — Irmen Street, Watling 
Street, and so forth. 

And then, like true Englishmen, our own forefathers 
showed their respect for the said divine works, not by 
cop)dng them, but by picking them to pieces to pave 
every man his own court-yard. Be it so. The neglect 
of new roads, the destruction of the old ones, was a 
natural evil consequence of local self-government. A 
cheap price perhaps, after all, to pay for that power of 
local self-government which has kept England free unto 
this day. 

Be that as it may, down the Roman road Hereward 
went ; past Alcohbury Hill, of the old posting daiys ; past 
Hatfield, then deep forest ; and so to St. Alban's, then 



328 Hereward 

deep forest likewise. And there they lodged in the 
minster ; for the monks thereof were good English, and 
sang masses daily for King Harold's soul. And the 
next day they went south, by wa)rs which are not so 
clear. 

Just outside St. Alban's — ^Verulamium of the Romans 
(the ruins whereof were believed to be full of ghosts, 
demons, and magic treasures) — they turned, at St 
Stephen's, to the left, off the Roman road to London ; 
and by another Roman road struck into the vast forest 
which ringed London round from north-east to south-west. 
Following the upper waters of the Colne, which ran 
through the woods on their left, they came to Watford, and 
then turned probably to Rickmansworth. No longer on 
the Roman paved ways, they followed horse-tracks, be- 
tween the forest and the rich marsh-meadows of the 
Colne, as far as Denham, and then struck into a Roman 
road again at the north end of Langley Park. From 
thence, over heathy commons — ^for that western part of 
Buckinghamshire, its soil being light and some gravel, 
was little cultivated then, and hardly all cultivated now — 
they held on straight by Langley town into the Vale of 
Thames. 

Little they dreamed, as they rode down by Ditton 
Green, off the heathy commons, past the poor scattered 
farms, on to the vast rushy meadows, while upon them 
was the dull weight of disappointment, shame, all but 



The Wake. 329 

despair; their race enslaved, their country a prey to 

strangers, and all its future, like their own, a lurid blank 

— ^little they dreamed of what that vale would be within 

eight hundred years — ^the eye of England, and it may be 

of the world; a spot which owns more wealth and 

peace, more art and civilisation, more beauty and more 

virtue, it may be, than any of the God's-gardens which 

make fair this earth. Windsor, on its crowned steep, 

was to them but a new hunting-palace of the old 

miracle-monger Edward, who had just ruined England. 

Ruimymede, a mile below them down the broad 

stream, was but a horse-fen fringed with water-lilies, 

where the men of Wessex had met of old to counsel, and 

to bring the country to this pass. And as they crossed, 

by ford or ferry-boat, the shallows of old Windsor, 

whither they had been tending all along, and struck 

into the moorlands of Wessex itself, they were as men 

going into an unknown wilderness : behind them ruin, 

and before them, unknown danger. 

On through Windsor Forest, Edward the Saint's old 
hunting-ground ; its bottoms choked with beech and oak, 
and birch and alder scrub ; its upper lands vast flats of 
level heath ; along the great trackway which runs along 
the lower side of Chobham Camp, some quarter of a 
mile broad, every rut and trackway as fresh at this day as 
when the ancient Briton, finding thafr his neighbour's 
essedum— chariot, or rather cart — ^had worn the ruts too 



330 Hereward 

deep, struck out a fresh wandering line for himself across 
the dreary heath. 

Over the Blackwater by Sandhurst, and along the flats 
of Hartford Bridge, where the old fur25e-grown ruts show 
the trackway to this day. Down into the clayland 
forests of the Andredsweald, and up out of them again 
at Basing, on to the dean crisp chalk turf ; to strike at 
Popham Lane the Roman road from Silchester, and hold 
it over the high downs, till they saw for below them the 
royal city of Winchester. 

Itchen, silver as they looked on her from above, but 
when they came down to her, so clear that none could 
see where water ended and where air began, hurried 
through the city in many a stream. Beyond it rose the 
"White Camp," the "Venta Belgarum," the circular 
earthwork of white chaJk on the high down. Within the 
city rose the ancient minster chiurch, built by Ethelwold — 
ancient even then — ^where slept the ancient kings ; Ken- 
nulf, Egbert, and Ethelwulf the Saxons ; and by them the 
Danes, Canute the Great, and Hardacanute his son, and 
Norman Emma his wife, and Ethelred's before him ; and 
the great Earl Godwin, who seemed to Hereward to have 
died, not twenty, but two hundred years ago ; — ^and it 
may be an old Saxon hall upon the little iste whither 
Edgar had bidden bring the heads of all the wolves in 
Wessex, where afterwards the bishops built Wolvesey 
Palace. But nearer to them, on the down which sloped 



J 



The Wake. 331 

up to the west, stood an uglier thing, which they saw 
with curses deep. and loud, — ^the keep of the new Nor- 
man castle by the west gate. 

Hereward halted his knights upon the down outside 
the northern gate. Then he rode forward himself. The 
gate was open wide ; but he did not care to go in. 

So he rode into the .gateway,, and smote upon that gate 
with his lance-butt But the porter saw the knights upon 
the down, and was afraid to come out ; for he feared 
treason. 

Then Hereward smote a second time : but the porter 
did not come out. 

Then he took the lance by the shaft, and smote a third 
time. And he smote so hard, that the lance-butt flew to 
flinders against Winchester Gate. 

And at that started out two knights, who had come down 
from the castle, se'eing the meinie on the down ; and asked : 

" Who art thou, who knockest here so bold 1 " 

'' Who I am, any man can see by those splinters, if he 
knows what men are left in England this day.'' 

The knights looked at the broken wood, and then at 
each other. Who could the man be, who could beat an 
ash stave to flinders at a single blow 1 

"You are young, and do not know me ; and no shame 
to you. Go and tell William the king, that Hereward is 
come to put his hands between the king's, and be the 
king^s man henceforth,*'^ 



33 2 Hereward 

"You are Hereward 1" asked one, half awed, half 
disbelieving at Herewaid's short stature. 

" You are — I know notwho. Pick up those splinters, 
and take them to King William ; and say, ' The man 
who broke that lance against the gate is here to make 
his peace with thee,' and he will know who I am." 

And so cowed were these two knights with Here- 
ward's royal voice, and royal eye, and ro3ral strength, that 
they went simply, and did what he bade them. 

And when King William saw the splinters, he was as 
joyful as man could be, and said : 

" Send him to me, and tell him. Bright shines the sun 
to me that lights Hereward into Winchester." 

" But, Lord King, he has with him a meinie of full 
forty knights. 

" So much the better. I shall have the more valiant 
Englishmen to help my valiant French." 

So Hereward rode round, outside the walls, to Wil- 
liam's new entrenched palace, outside the west gate, by 
the castle. 

And then Hereward went in, and knelt before the 
Norman, and put his hands between William's hands, 
and swore to be his man. 

" I have kept my word," said he, " which I sent to 
thee at Rouen seven years agone. Thou art king of all 
England ; and I am the last man to say so." 

"And since thou hast said it, I am king indeed. 



The Wake. 333 

Come with me, and dine ; and to-morrow I will see thy 
knights." 

And William walked out of. the hall leaning on Here- 
waxd*s shoulder, at which all the Normans gnashed their 
teeth with envy. 

*^ And for my knights, Lord ELing? Thine and mine 
will mix, for a while yet, like oil and water ; and I fear 
lest there be murder done between them." 

" Likely enough." 

So the knights were bestowed in a " vill " near by ; 
" and the next day the venerable king himself went forth 
to see those knights, and caused them to stand, and 
march before him, both with arms, and without. With 
whom being much delighted, he praised them, congra- 
tulating them on their beauty and stature, and saying that 
they must all be knights of fame in war." After which 
Hereward sent them all home except two ; and waited 
till he should marry Alftruda, and get back his heritage. 

" And when that happens," said William, " why should 
we not have two weddings, beausire, as well as one ? I 
hear that you have in Crowland a fair daughter, and 
marriageable." 

Hereward bowed. 

*^And I have found a husband for her suitable to 
her years, and who may conduce to your peace and 
serenity." 

Hereward bit his lip. To refuse was impossible in 
those days. But 



334 Hereward 

'' I trust that. your Grace has found a knight of higher 
lineage than him^ whom, aiter so many honours, you 
honoured with the hand of my niece." 

William laughed It was not his interest to quand 
with Hereward. "Aha! Ivo, the woodcutter's son. I 
ask your pardon for that, Sir Hereward. Had you been 
my man then, as you are now, it might have been dif- 
ferent" 

''If a king ask my pardon, I can only ask his in 
return." 

" You must be friends -with Taillebois. He is a braye 
knight, and a wise warrior." 

** None ever doubted that" 

''And to cover any little blots in his scutcheon, I have 
made him an earl, as I may make you some day.'* 

"Your Majesty^ like a true king, knows how to re- 
ward. Who is this knight whom you have chosen for 
my lass % " 

" Sir Ht^h of Evermue, a neighbour of yours, and a 
man of blood and breeding." 

*' I know him, and his lineage ; and it is very well. I 
humbly thank your Majesty." 

" Can I be the same man ? " said Hereward to him- 
self, bitterly. 

And he was npt the same man. He was besotted on 
Alftruda, and humbled himself accordingly. 



J 



The Wake. 335 



CHAPTER XX. 

HOW TORFRIDA CONFESSED THAT SHE HAD BEEN 
INSPIRED BY THE DEVIL. 

After a few days there came down a priest to Crow- 
land from Winchester, and talked with Torfnda. 

And she answered him, the priest said, so wisely and 
well, that he never had^ met with a woman of so clear 
a brain, or of so stout a heart. 

At last, being puzzled to .get that which he wanted, he 
touched on the matter of her marriage with Hereward. 

She wished it, he said, dissolved. She wished herself 
to enter religion. 

The Church would be most happy to sanction so holy 
a desire, but there were objections. She was a married 
woman ; and her husband had not given his consent. 

" Let him give it, then." 

There were still objections. He had nothing to bring 
against, her which could justify the dissolution of the 
holy bond : unless 

" Unless I bring some myself ] " 



^ I 



33^ Hereward 

" There have been rumours — I say not how true— of 
magic and sorcery ^** 

Torfrida leaped up from her seat, and laughed such a 
laugh, that the priest said in after years, it rung through 
his head as if it had arisen out of the pit of the lost. 

" So that is what you want, Churchman % Then you 
shall have it. Bring me pen and ink. I need not to 
confess to you. You shall read my confession when it 
is done. I am a better scribe, mind you, than any dark 
between here and Paris." 

She seized the pen and ink, and wrote ; not fiercely, as 
the priest expected, but slowly and carefully. Then she 
gave it the priest to read. 

" Will that do. Churchman ? Will that free my soul, 
and that of your French Archbishop 1 " 

And the priest read to himself: 

How Torfrida of St. Omer, bom at Aries in Provence, 
confessed that from her youth up she had been given 
to the practice of diabolic arts, and had at divers times 
and places used the same, both alone and with Richilda, 
late Countess of Hainault. How, wickedly, wantonly, 
and instinct with a malignant spirit, she had compassed, 
by charms and spells, to win the love of Hereward. 
How she had ever since kept in bondage him, and others 
whom she had not loved with the same carnal love, but 
only desired to make them useful to her own desire of 
power and glory, by the same magical arts ; for which 



The Wake. 337 

she now humbly begged pardon of Holy Church, and 
of all Christian folk ; and, penetrated with compunction, 
desired only that she might retire into the convent of 
Crowland. She asserted the marriage which she had so 
unlawfully compassed, to be null and void ; and prayed 
to be released therefrom, as a burden to her conscience 
and soul, that she might spend the rest of her life in 
penitence for her many enormous sins. She submitted 
herself to the judgment of Holy Church, only begging 
that this her free confession might be counted in her 
favour, and that she might not be put to death, as 
she deserved, nor immured perpetually; because her 
mother-in-law according to the flesh, the Countess 
Godiva, being old and infirm, had daily need of her \ and 
she wished to serve her menially as long as she lived. 
After which, she put herself utterly upon the judgment 
of the Church. And meanwhile she desired and prayed 
that she might be allowed to remain in perpetual im- 
prisonment (whereby her marriage could be canonically 
dissolved) in the said monastery of Crowland, not leaving 
the precincts thereof, without special leave given by the 
Abbot and prioress in one case between her and them 
reserved ; to wear garments of haircloth ; to fast all the 
year on bread and water; and to be disciplined with 
rods or otherwise, at such times as the prioress should 
command, and to such degree as her body, softened 
with carnal luxiuy, could reasonably endure. And 

VOL. II. z 



33^ • Hereivard 

beyond — ^that, being dead to the world, God might have 
.mercy on her souL 

And she meant what she said. The madness of 
remorse and disappointment, so common in the wild 
middle age, had come over her ; and with it the twin 
madness of self-torture. 

The priest read, and trembled ; not for Torfrida, but 
for himself, lest she should enchant him after alL 

"She must have been an awfiil sinner," said he to the 
monks when he got safe out of the room ; " comparable 
only to the witch of Endor, or the woman Jezebel, of 
whom St John writes in the Revelations.*' 

** I do not know how you Frenchmen measure folks, 
when you see them : but to our mind she is — ^for good- 
ness, humility, and patience comparable only to an Atigel 
of God," said Abbot Ultketyl. 

" You Englishmen will have to changeyour minds on 
many points; if you mean to stay here." 

"We shall not change them, and we shall stay here," 
quoth the Abbot. 

" How % You will not get Sweyn and his Danes to 
help you a second time." 

" No, we shall all die, and give you your wills, and 
you will not have the heart to cast our bones into the 
fens?" 

" Not unless you intend to work miracles, and set up 
for saints, like your Alphege and Edmund." 



TTie Wake. 339 

''Heaven forbid that we should compare ourselves 
with them ! Only let us alone till we die." 

'' If you let us alone^ and do not turn traitor mean- 
while." 

Abbot Ulfketyl bit his lip, and kept down the rising 
fiend. 

''And now," said the priest, "deliver me over Tor- 
frida the younger, daughter of Hereward and this woman, 
that I may take her to the King, who has found a fit 
husband for her." 

"You will hardly get her." 

" Not get her 1 " 

" Not without her mother's consent. The lass cares 
for nought but her." 

" Pish ! that sorceress 1 Send for the girL*' 

Abbot Ulfketyl, forced in his own abbey, great and 
august lord though he was, to obey any upstart Of a 
Norman priest who came backed by the King and 
Lanfranc, sent for the laSs. 

The young outlaw came in — hawk on fist, and its 
hood off, for it was a pet — ^short, sturdy, upright, brown- 
haired, blue-eyed, ill-dressed, with hard hands and sun- 
burnt face, but with the hawk-eye of her father and her 
mother, and the hawks among which she was bred. 
She looked the priest over from head to foot, till he 
was abashed. 

"A Frenchman ! " said she, and she said no more. 

z 2 



349 ' Hereward 

The priest looked at her eyes, and then at the hawk's 
eyes. They were disagreeably like each other. He 
told his errand as courteously as he could, for he was 
not a bad-hearted man for a Norman priest. 

The lass laughed him to scorn. The King's com- 
mands ? She never saw a king in the greenwood, and 
cared for none. There was no king in England now, 
since Sweyn Ulfsson sailed back to Denmark. "Who 
was this French William, to sell a free English lass 
like a colt or a cow ? The priest might go back to the 
slaves of Wessex, and command them if he could : but 
in the fens, men were free, and l?isses too. 

The priest was piously shocked and indignant, and 
began to argue. 

She played with her hawk instead of listening, and 
then was marching out of the room. 

" Your mother," said he, " is a sorceress." 

" You are a knave, or set on by knaves. You lie ; and 
you know you lie." And she turned away again. 

" She has confessed it." 

"You have driven her mad between you, till she 
will confess anything. I presume you threatened 
to bum her, as some of you did awhile back." And 
the young lady made use of words equally strong and 
true. 

The priest was not accustomed to the direct language 
of the greenwood, and indignant on his own account, 



The Wake, 341 

threatened, and finally offered to use, force. Whereon 
there looked up into his face such a demon (so he said) 
as he never had seen or dreamed of, and said : 

" If you lay a finger on me, I will brittle you like any 
deer." And therewith pulled out a saying-knife, about 
half as long again as the said priest's hand, being very 
sharp, so he deposed, down the whole length of one 
edge, and likewise down his little finger's length of the 
other. 

Not being versed in the terms of English venery, he 
asked Abbot Ulfketyl what brittling of a deer might 
mean ; and being informed that it was that operation 
on the carcase of a stag which his countrymen called 
eventrer, he subsided, and thought it best to go and 
consult the young lady's mother. 

She, to his astonishment, submitted at once and 
utterly. The King, and he whom she had called her 
husband, were very gracious. It was all well. She 
would have preferred, and the lady Godiva too, after 
their experience of the world and the flesh, to have 
devoted her daughter to Heaven in the minster there. 
But she was unworthy. Who was she, to train a bride 
for Him who died on the cross % She accepted this as 
part of her penance, with thankfiilness and humility. 
She had heard that Sir Hugh of Evermue was a gentle- 
man of ancient birth and good prowess, and she thanked 
the King for his choice. Let the priest tell her daughter 



342 Hereward 

that she commanded her to go with him to Winchester. 
She did not wish to see her. She was stained with 
many crimes, and unworthy to approach a pure maiden. 
Besides, it would only cause misery and tears. She was 
trying to die to the world and to the flesh ; and she did 
not wish to reawaken their power within her. Yes. 
It was very well. Let the lass go with him. 

" Thou art indeed a true penitent," said the priest, his 
human heart softening him. 

^' Thou art very much mistaken," said she, and turned 
away. 

The girl, when she heard her mother^s command, 
wept, shrieked, an3 went. At least she was going to 
her father. And fropi wholesome fear of that same 
sapng-knife, the priest left her in peace all the way to 
Winchester. 

After which, Abbot Ulfketyl went into his lodgings, 
and burst, like a noble old nobleman as he was, into 
bitter tears of rage and shame. 

But Torfrida's eyes were as dry as her own sackcloth. 

The priest took the letter back, and showed it — ^it 
may be to Archbishop Lanfranc, who was well versed 
in such matters, having already (as is well known to all 
the world) arranged King William's imcanonical marriage, 
by help of Archdeacon Hildebrand, afterwards Pope. 
But what he said, this chronicler would not dare to say. 
For he was a very wise man, and a very staunch and 



<f 



The Wake. 343 

strong pillar of the Holy Roman Church. And doubtless 
he was man enough not to require that anything should 
be added tx) Torfrida's penance ; and that would have 
been enough to prove him a man in those days — at 
least for a Churchman — ^as it proved Archbishop or Saint 
Ailred to be, a few years after, in the case of the nun of 
Watton, to be read in Gale's " Scriptores Anglicanise." 
Then he showed the letter to Alftruda. 

And she laughed one of her laughs, and said, " I have 
her at last ! " 

Then, as it befel, he was forced to show the letter to 
Queen Matilda ; and she wept over it human tears, such 
as she, the noble heart, had been forced to weep many 
a time before, and said, " The poor soul ! — ^You, Alftruda, 
woman ! does Hereward know of this ^ " 

" No, madam," said Alftruda, not adding that she had 
taken good care that he should not know. 

" It is the best thing which I have heard of him. I 
should tell him, were it not that I must not meddle 
with my lord's plans. God grant him a good delivery, 
as they say of the poor souls in gaoL Well, madam, 
you have your will at last. God give you grace thereof, 
for you have not given him much chance as yet." 

" Your majesty will honour us by coming to the 
wedding 1 " asked Alftruda, utterly unabashed. 

Matilda the Good looked at her with a face of such 
calm childlike astonishment, that Alftruda dropped her 



344 Hereward 

proud head at last, and slunk out of the presence like 
a beaten cur. 

But William went to the wedding j and swore horrible 
oaths that they were the handsomest pair he had ever 
seen. And so Hereward married Alftruda. How Holy 
Church settled the matter, is not said. But that Here- 
ward married Alftruda, under these very circumstances, 
may be considered- a "historic fact," being vouched for 
both by Gaimar, and by Richard of Ely. And doubt- 
less Holy Church contrived that it should happen with- 
out sin, if it conduced to her own interest. 

And little Torfrida — ^then aged, it seems, some sixteen 
years — was married to Hugh of Evermue. She wept 
and struggled as she was dragged into the church. 

"But I do not want to be married. I want to go 
back to my mother." 

" The diabolic instinct may have descended to her,** 
said the priests, " and attracts her to the sorceress. We 
had best sprinkle her with holy water." 

So they sprinkled her with holy water, and used 
exorcisms. Indeed, the case being an important one, 
and the personages of rank, they brought out from their 
treasures the apron of a certain virgin saint, and put it 
roxmd her neck, in hopes of driving out the hereditary 
fiend, 

" If I am led with a halter, I must needs go," said 
she, with one of her mother's own flashes of wit, and 



T7u Wake. 345 

went " But, Lady Alftruda," whispered she, halfway up 
the church, " I never loved him." 

"Behave yourself before the King, or I will whip you 
till the blood runs." 

And so she would ; and no one would have wondered 
in those days. 

" I will murder you, if you do. But I never even saw 
him." 

" Little fool ! And what are you going through, but 
what I went through before you % " 

" You to say that ] " gnashed the girl, as another 
spark of her mother's wit came out. " And you gaining 
what '' 

" Whiat I waited for for fifteen years," said Alftruda, 
coolly. " If you have courage and cunning like me, to 
wait for fifteen years, you too may have your will like- 



wise." 



The pure child shuddered ; and was married to Hugh 
of Evermue, who was, according to them of Crowland, 
a good friend to that monastery, and therefore, doubtless, 
a good man. Once, says wicked report, he offered to 
strike her, as was the fashion in those chivalrous days. 
Whereon she turned upon him like a tigress, and 
bidding him remember that she was the daughter of 
Hereward and Torfrida, gave him such a beating that 
he, not wishing to draw sword upon her, surrendered 
at discretion; and they lived all their lives after* 



34^ Hereward 

wards as happily as most other married people in those 

times. 

All this, however pleasant to Hereward, was not 

pleasant to the French courtiers; whereon, after the 

simple fashion of those times, they looked about for 

one who would pick a quarrel with Hereward and slay 

him in fair fight But an Archibald Bell-the-Cat was 

not to be found behind every hedge. 

Still, he might be provoked to fight. If his foe was 
slain, so much the worse for both parties. For a duel, 
especially if a fatal one, within the precincts of the king's 
court, was a grave offence, punishable, at least in ex- 
treme cases, with death. 

Now it befel, that among them at Winchester was 
Oger the Breton, he who had held Morcar's lands round 
Bourne, and who was now in wrath and dread enough, 
at the prospect of having to give them up to Hereward. 
It was no difficult matter to set the hot-Jteaded Celt on 
to provoke the equally hot-headed Wake ; and accord- 
ingly, Oger, having been duly plied with wine, was ad- 
vised to say one afternoon — 

"Hereward feeds well at the king's table. French 
cooking is a pleasant change for an outlaw, who has 
fed for many a day on rats and mice, and such small 
deer." 

"A pleasanter change for a starveling Breton^ who 
was often glad enough, ere he came to. England, to rob 



The WaJu. 347 

his own ponies of their furze-toppings, and boil them 
down for want of kale." 

" We use furze-toppings in Brittany to scourge saucy- 
churls withaL Speakest thou thus to me, who have the 
blood of Eling Arthur and half his knights in my veins ) ". 

" Then discipline thine own churrs back therewith ; 
for churl thou art, though thou comest of Arthur's blood. 
Nay, I will not quarrel with thee. I have had too many 
gnats pestering me in the fens already to care for one 
more here." 

Wherefrom the Breton judged that Hereward had no 
lust to fight. 

The next day he met Hereward going out to hunt, 
and was confirmed in his opinion when Hereward lifted 
his cap to him most courteously, saying that he was not 
aware before that his neighbour was a gentleman of such 
high lineage. 

^' Lineage % Better at least than thine, thou bare-legged 
Saxon, who hast dared to call me base-bom and starve- 
ling? So thou must needs have thy throat cuti I took 
thee for a wiser man." 

" Many have taken me for that which I am not. If 
you will harness yourself, I will do the same : and we 
will ride up to the woods, and settle this matter in 
peace." 

"Three men on each side to see faiir play," said the 
Breton. 



34^ Hereward 

And up to the woods they rode; and fought long 
without advantage on either side. 

Hereward was not the man which he had been. His 
nerve was gone, as well as his conscience ; and all the 
dash and fiuy of his old onslaughts gone therewith. 

He grew tired of the fight, not in body, but in mind ; 
and more than once drew back. 

" Let us stop this child's play,'* said he, according to 
the chronicler ; " what need have we to fight here all day 
about nothing ? " 

Whereat the Breton fancied him already more than 
half-beaten, and attacked more fiiriously than ever. He 
would be the first man on earth who ever had had the 
better of the great outlaw. He would win himself 
eternal glory, as the champion of all England. 

But he had mistaken his man, and his indomitable 
English pluck. ** It was Hereward's fashion in fight 
and war," says the chronicler, " always to ply the man 
most at the last." And so foimd the Breton; for 
Hereward suddenly lost patience, and rushing on him 
with one of his old shouts, hewed at him again and again, 
as if' his arm would never tire. 

Oger gave back, would he or not. In a few moments 
his sword-arm dropped to his side, cut half through, 

" Have you had enough, Sir Tristram the younger f ** 
quoth Hereward, wiping his sword, and walking moodOy 
away. 



The Wake, 349 

The fruit of which was this. That within twenty-four 
hours Hereward was arrested on a charge of speaking 
evil of the king, breaking his peace, compassing the 
death of his faithful lieges, and various other wicked, 
traitorous, and diabolical acts. 

He was to be sent to Bedford Castle, in the custody 
of Robert Herepol, Chatelain of Bedford, a reasonable 
and courteous man. The king had spared his life, in 
consideration of his having first submitted himself. 

Hereward went like a man stunned, and spoke never 
a word. Day after day he rode northward, unarmed for 
the first time for many a year ; and for the first time in 
all his years, with gyves on ankle and on wrist This 
was the wages of his sin. This was the faith of French- 
men. He was not astonished, hardly disappointed. 
Hatred of William, and worse, hatred of himself, swept 
all the passions firom his soul. Of Alftruda he never 
thought for a moment. Indeed, he never thought 
steadily of anything, was hardly conscious of anything, 
till he heard the key turned on him in a room — not a 
small or doleful one — in Bedford keep ; and found an 
iron shackle on his leg, fastened to the stode bench on 
which he sat 

Robert of Herepol had meant to leave his prisoner 
loose. But there were those among his French guards 
who told him, and with truth, that if he did so, no man's 
life would be safe ; that to brain the gaoler with his own 



350 Sereward 

keys, and then twist out of his bowels a line wherewith 
to let himself down from the top of the castle, would be 
not only easy, but amusing, to the famous " Wake." 

So Robert consented to fetter him so far, but no 
farther ; and begged his pardon again and again as he 
did it, pleading the painful necessities of his office. 

But Hereward heard him not. He sat in stupefied 
despair. A great black cloud had covered all heaven 
and earth, and entered into his brain through every 
sense ; till his mind, as he said afterwards, was like Hell 
with the fire gone out. 

A gaoler came in, he knew not how long after, bring- 
ing a good meal, and wine. He came cautiously toward 
the prisoner, and when still beyond the length of his 
chain, set the food down, and thrust it toward him with 
a stick, lest Hereward should leap on him and wring his 
neck. 

But Hereward never even saw him or the food. He 
sat there all day, all night, and nearly all the next day, 
and hardly moved hand or foot The gaoler told Sir 
Robert in the evening that he thought the man was mad, 
and would die. 

So good Sir Robert went up to him, and spoke kindly 
and hopefully. But all Hereward answered was, that he 
was very well. That he wanted nothing. That he had 
always heard well of Sir Robert. That he should like 
to get a little sleep : but that sleep would not come. 



The Wake. 351 

The next day Sir Robert came again early, and found 
him sitting in the same place. 

" He was very well," he said. " How could he be other- 
wise? He was just where he ought to be. A man 
could not be better than in his right place.*' 

Whereon Sir Robert gave him up for mad. 

Then he bethought of sending him a harp, knowing 
the fame of Hereward's music and singing. " And when 
he saw the harp," the gaoler said, " he wept ; but bade 
take the thing away. And so sat still where he was." 

In this state of dull despair, he remained for many 
weeks. At last he woke up. 

There passed through and by Bedford large bodies of 
troops, going as it were to and from battle. The clank 
of arms stirred Hereward 's heart as of old, and he sent 
to Sir Robert to ask what was toward. 

Sir Robert, "the venerable man," came to him joy- 
fully and at once, glad to speak to an illustrious captive, 
whom he looked on as an injured person ; and told him 
news enough. 

Taillebois' warning about Ralph Guader and Waltheof 
had not been needless. Ralph, as the most influential 
of the Bretons, was on no good terms with the Normans, 
save with one, and that one of the most powerful — Fitz- 
Osbem, Earl of Hereford. His sister, Ralph was to 
have married : but William, for reasons unknown, for- 
bade the match. The two great Earls celebrated the 



352 Hereward 

wedding in spite of William, and asked Waltheof as a 
guest. And at Exning, between the fen and Newmarket 
Heath— 

" Was that biide-ale 
Which was mail's bale." 

For there was matured the plot which Ivo and others had 
long seen brewing. William (they said) had made himself 
hateful to all men by his cruelties and tyrannies ; and, 
indeed, his government was growing more unrighteous 
day by day. Let them drive him out of England, and 
part the land between them. Two should be dukes, the 
third king paramount. 

"Waltheof, I presume," quoth Hereward, "plotted 
drunk, and repented sober, when too late. The wittol ! 
He should have been a monk." 

"Repented he has, if ever he was guilty. For he 
fled to Archbishop Lanfranc, and confessed to him so 
much, that Lanfranc declares him innocent, and has 
sent him on to William in Normandy." 

" Oh, kind priest 1 true priest ! To send his sheep 
into the wolf's mouth." 

"You forget, dear sire, that William is our king." 

" I can hardly forget that, with this pretty ring upon 
my ankle. But after my experience of how he has kept 
faith with me, what can I expect for Waltheof the wittol, 
save that which I have foretold many a time % " 

"As for you, dear sire, the king has been misinformed 



The Wake. 353 

concerning you. I have sent messengers to reason with 
him again and again : but as long as Taillebois, Warrenne, 
and Robert Malet had his ear, of what use were my 
poor words?" 

" And what said they ? " 

"That there would be no peace in England if you 
were loose." 

"They lied. I am no boy, like Waltheof. I know 
when the game is played out And it is played out now. 
The Frenchman is master, and I know it well. Were I 
loose to-morrow, and as great a fool as Waltheof, what 
could I do, with, it may be, some forty knights, and a 
hundred men-at-arms, against all William's armies 1 But 
how goes on this fools' rebellion % If I had been loose, 
I might have helped to crush it in the bud." 

" And you would have done that against Waltheof? " 

" Why not against him ? He is but bringing more 
;misery on' England. Tell that to William. Tell him 
that if he sets me free, I will be the first to attack 
Waltheof, or whom he will. There are no English left 
to fight against," said he, bitterly, "for Waltheof is 



none now." 



"He shall know your words when he returns to 

England." 

"What, is he abroad, and all this evil going on ? " 
" In Normandy. But the English have risen for the 

King in Herefordshire, and beaten Earl Roger ; and 

VOL. II. A A 



354 Hereward 

Odo of Bayeux and Bishop Mowbray are on their way 
to Cambridge, where they hope to give a good account 
of Earl Ralph ; and hope, too, that the English may help 
them there." 

"And they shall ! They hate Ralph Guader as much 
as I do. Can you send a message for me % " 

"Whither?" 

**To Bourne in the Bruneswald; and say to Here- 
ward's men, wherever they are. Let them rise and arm, 
if they love Hereward ; and go down to Cambridge, to be 
the foremost at Bishop Odo's side against Ralph Guader, 
or Waltheof himself. Send I send ! Oh that I were 
free 1 " 

"Would to heaven thou wert free, my gallant sir!" 
said the good man. 

* From that day Hereward woke up somewhat He 
was still a broken man, querulous, peevish : but the 
hope of freedom and the hope of battle stirred him. 
If he could but get to his men ! But his melancholy 
retimied. His men — some of them at least — went down 
to Odo at Cambridge, and did good service. Guader 
was utterly routed, and escaped to Norwich, and thence 
to Brittany, his home. The bishops punished their 
prisoners, the rebel French, with horrible mutila- 
tions. 

" The wolves are beginning to eat each other," said 
Hereward to himself. But it was a sickening thought to 



The Wahe. 355 

him, that his men had been fighting and he not at their 
head. 

After awhile there came to Bedford Castle two witty 
knaves. One was a cook, \iAio "came to buy milk,*' 
says the chronicler; the other seemingly a gleeman. 
They told stories, jested, harped, sang, drank, and 
pleased much the garrison and Sir Robert, who let them 
hang about the place. 

They asked next, whether it were true that the famous 
Wake was there ? If so, might «i man have a look at 
him? 

The gaoler said that many men might have gone to 
see him, so easy was Sir Robert to him. But he would 
have no man ; and none dare enter save Sir Robert and 
he, for fear of their lives. But he would ask him of 
Herepol. 

The good knight of Herepol said, " Let the rogues go 
in, they may amuse the poor soul." 

So they went in ; and as soon as they went, he knew 
them. One was Martin Lightfoot, the other, Leofric his 
mass-piiest 

" Who sent you % " asked he surlily, turning his face 
away. 

" She." 

"Whol" 

" We know but one she, and she is at Crowland." 

" She sent you % and wherefore % " 

A A 2 



}% 



3s6 Hereward 

" That we might sing to you, and make you merryJ 
Hereward answered them with a terrible word, and 
turned his face to the wall, groaning, and then bade 
them sternly to go. 
So they went, for the time. 

The gaoler told this to Sir Robert, who understood 
all, being a kind-hearted man. 

" From his poor first wife, eh % Well, there can be no 
harm in that Nor if they came from this Lady Alfbiida 
either, for that matter; let them go in and out when 
they will" 

" But they may be spies and traitors." 
" Then we can but hang them." 
Robert of Herepol, it would appear from the chronicle, 
-did not much care whether they were spies or not. 

So the men went to and fro ; and often sat with Here- 
ward. But he forbad them sternly to mention Torfiida's 
name. 

Alftruda, meanwhile, returned to Bbume, and took 
possession of her new husband's house and lands. She 
sent him, again and again, messages of passionate love 
and sorrow : but he listened to- them as sullenly as he 
did to his two servants, and sent no answer back. And 
so he sat more weary months, in the very prison, it may 
be in the very room, in which John Bunyan sate nigh 
six hxmdred years after : but in a very different frame of 
mind. 



T7u Wahe. 357 

One day Sir Robert. was going up the stairs with 
another knight, and met the two coming down. He 
was^talking to that knight earnestly, indignantly: and 
somehow, as he passed Leofric and Martin he thought 
fit to raise his voice, as if in a great wrath. 

" Shame to all honour and chivalry ! Good saints in 
heaven, what a thing is human fortune ! That this mian, 
who had once a gallant army at his back, should be at 
this moment going like a sheep to the slaughter, to 
Buckingham Castle, at the mercy of his worst enemy — of 
Ivo Taillebois, of all men in the world ! If there were 
a*dozen knights left of all those whom he used to heap 
with wealth and honour, worthy the name of knights, 
they would catch us between here and Stratford, and 
make a free man of their lord.*' 

Sojspake — or words to that effect, according to the 
Latin chronicler, who must have got them from Leofric 
himself— the good knight of Herepol. 

" Hillo, knaves ! " said he, seeing the two, " are you 
here eaves-dropping 1 Out of the castle this instant, on 
your lives." 

Which hint those two witty knaves took on the spot. 

A few days after, Hereward was travelling toward 
Buckingham, chained upon a horse, with Sir Robert and 
his men, and a goodly company of knights belonging to 
Ivo. Ivo, as the story runs, seems to have arranged 
with Ralph Pagnel at Buckingharh, to put him into the 



35^ Hereward 

keeping of a creature of his own. And how easy it was 
to put out a man's eyes, or starve him to death, in a 
French keep, none knew better than Hereward. 

But he was past fear or sorrow. A dull heavy cloud 
of despair had settled down upon his soul. Black with 
sin, his heart could not pray. He had hardened himself 
against all heaven and earth; and thought, when he 
thought at all, only of his wrongs: but never of his 
sins. 



The Wake. 359 



CHAPTER XXI. 

HOW EARL WALTHEOF WAS MADE A SAINT. 

A DAY or two after, there sat in Abbot Thorold's 
lodgings in Peterborough, a select company of French- 
men, talking oyer affairs of State after their supper. 

"Well, lords and knights,** said the Abbot, as he 
sipped his wine, " the cause of our good king, which is 
happily the cause of Holy Church, goes well, I think. 
We have much to be thankful for when we review the 
events of the past year. We have finished the rebels \ 
Roger de Breteuil is safe in prison, Ralph Guader un- 
safe in Brittany, and Waltheof more than imsafe in — 
the place to which traitors descend. We have not a 
manor left which is not in loyal hands; we have not 
an English monk left who has not been scourged and 
starved into holy obedience; not an English saint for 
whom any man.cares a jot^ since Guerin de Lire preached 
down St. Adhehn, the admirable Primate disposed of St. 
Alphege's martyrdom, and some other wise man — ^I 
am ashamed to say that I forget who — proved ^that 
St Edmund of Suffolk was merely a barbarian kinglet, 



360 Mereivard 

who was killed fighting with Danes only a little more 
heathen than himself. We have had great labours and 
great sufferings since we landed in this barbarous isle 
upon our holy errand ten years since; but, under the 
shadow of the Gonfalon of St Peter, we have conquered, 
and may sing ' Dominus Illuminatio mea,' with humble 
and thankful hearts." 

" I don't know that," said Ascehn, " my Lord Uncle ; I 
shall never sing * Dominus illuminatio,' till I see your coffers 
iUimiinated once more by those thirty thousand marks." 

"Or I," said Ivo TaiUebois, '*tiU I see Hereward's 
head on Bourne gable, where he stuck up those French- 
mens' heads seven years ago, as his will be, within a week 
after he gets to Buckingham Castle — ^where he should be 
by now. But what the Lord Abbot means by saying 
that we have done with English saints I do not see ; for 
the rogues of Crowland have just made a new one for 
themselves." 

"A new one?" 

" I tell you truth and fact ; I will tell you all, Lord 
Abbot ; and you shall judge whether it is not enough to 
drive an honest man mad to see such things gomg on 
under his nose. Men say of me that £«am rough, and 
swear and blaspheme. I put it to you. Lord Abbot, if 
Job would not have cursed if he had been Lord of 
Spalding. You know that the king let these Crowland 
monks have Waltheofs body i" 



The Wake. 361 

" Yes, I thought it an unwise act of grace. It would 
have been wiser to leave him, as he intended, out on the 
bare down, in ground unconsecrate : but what has hap- 
pened % " 

"That old traitor, Ulfketyl, and his monks, bring the 
body to Crowland, and bury it as if it had been the 
Pope's. In a week they begin to spread their lies — ^that 
Waltheof was innocent ; that Archbishop Lanfranc him- 
self said so." 

^* That was the only act of human weakness which I 
have ever known the venerable prelate commit," said 
Thorold. 

** That the' burghers at Winchester were so deep in 
the traitor's favour, that the king had to have him out and 
cut off his head in the grey of the morning, ere folks 
were up and about ; that the fellow was so holy that he 
passed all his time in prison in weeping and praying, and 
said over the whole Psalter every day, because his 
mother had taught it him — I wish she had taught him to 
be an honest man — ^and that when his head was on the 
block he said all the Paternoster, as fisu: as ' Lead us not 
into temptation,' and then off went his head ; whereon, 
his head being off, he finished the prayer with — ^you know 
best what comes next. Abbot % " 

" Deliver us from evil, Amen ! What a manifest lie ! 
The traitor was not permitted, it is plain, to ask for that 
which could never be granted to him : but his soul, un- 



A I 



362 Hereward 

worthy to be delivered from evil, entered instead into 
evil, and howls for ever in the pit." 

" But all tiie rest may be true," said one j " and yet 
that be no reason why these monks should say it." 

"So I told them," quoth Taillebois, "and threatened 
them too ; for, not content with making him a martyr, 
they are making him a saint." 

" Impious ! Who can do that, save the Holy 
Father % " said Thorold. 

" You had best get your bishop to look to them, then ; 
for they are carrying blind, beggars and mad girls by the 
dozen to be cured at the man's tomb, that is all. Their 
fellows in the cell at Spalding went about to take a girl 
that had fits off one of my manors, to cure her ; but that 
I stopped with a good horsewhip." 

"Andi^htly." 

" And gave the monks a piece of my mind ; and drove 
them clean out of their cell home to Crowland." 

What a piece of Ivo*s mind on this occasion might be, 
let Ingulf describe : 

" Against our monastery and all the people of Crow- 
land he was, by the instigation of the devil, raised to such 
an extreme pitch of fury, that he would follow their 
animals in the marshes with his dogs, drive them to a 
great distance down in the lakes, mutilate some in the 
tails, others in the ears, while often, by breaking the 
backs and legs of the beasts of burden, he rendered them- 



77ie Wake. 363 

utterly useless. Against our. cell also (at Spalding) and 
our brethren, Hs neighbours, the prior and monks, who 
dwelt all day within his presence, he raged with tyran- 
nical and frantic fury, lamed their oxen and horses, daily 
impounded their sheep. and poultry; striking down, kill- 
ing, and slaying their swine and pigs ; while at the same 
time the servants of the prior were oppressed in the 
EarFs court with insupportable exactions, were often 
assaulted, in the highways with swords and staves, and 
sometimes killed.'* 

At this moment there was a bustle outside. The door 
which led from the hall was thrown open, and then 
rushed in, muddy and gory, Oger the Breton. 

" Have a care for yourselves, lordings ! The Wake is 
loose 1 " 

If the earth had opened between them, the party 
could not have started more suddenly on their feet 

When their curses had lulled somewhat, Oger told his 
story between great gulps of wine ; for he was nigh dead 
with hard riding. 

" We were in a forest, midway between Bedford and 
Buckingham, when the rascals dashed out on us — 
Gwenoch and Winter, and the rest, with that Ramsey 
monk and the Wake Banner— I know not how many 
there were. We had no time to form, or even arm. Our 
helmets were hanging at our saddle-bows — it was all 
over in a minute." 



364, . Hereward 

"Cleverly done !*' shouted Ivo, in spite of his curses ; 
for he honestly loved deeds of anns^ for him or against 
him. " One Wake makes many." 

" And that old traitor of Herepol refused to fight We 
WCTe past his jurisdiction, he said. Your men, Lord Ivo, 
and Sir Ralph's must guard the prisoner, if they would." 

" He has been in league with The Wake all through." 

" That has he. For when The Wake was freed and 
armed, and hewing away like a devilish dwarf as he is, 
he alwa3rs bade spare Sir Robert, ciying. that he was his 
friend, and his saviour; and ere they parted the two 
villains shook hands lovingly, saying aloud, how Sir 
Robert should ride post to the king, and give him a good 
report of Hereward." 

The comments which followed this statement had best 
be omitted, as they consisted wholly of French oaths. 

"And how camest thou alive hither, of all men?" 
asked the Abbot at last 

" Howl I was smitten down at once, having no sword 
arm, as you know. But The Wake, when he saw me 
down, bade spare me. He would not slay me, lest the 
king should say he did it for the sake of my lands. I 
should ride to you here at Peterborough, and carry this 
message to you all ; that whoso wanted his head cut off, 
should come to him at Bourne." 

" He has promised to cut my head off long ago," said 
Ascelin. "Earl, knights, and gentlemen, do^you not 



The Wake. 365 

think it wiser that we shoiild lay our wits together once 
and for all, and cut off his 1 '' 

"But who will catch The Wake sleeping ? " said Ivo, 
laughing. 

"That will I. I have my plans, and my intelli*- 
gencers." 

" You your intelligencers 1 " 

" Nobles, there is nought suits so much my chivalrous 
humour, as the consoling of distressed ladies. I may 
have visited the &ir Alftruda at Bourne ; I may have re- 
minded her of certain old pleasant passages between her 
and me." 

" Which may end in thy going over thy horse's croup, 
nephew; as thou didst about another dame of Here- 
ward's." 

" Unde 1 What would a singer of doughty deeds, and 
a doer thereof beside, like you, have me do — especially 
when we both have thirty thousand marks to avenge — 
save dare again — ^perhaps to win? No, no. I lost that 
Torfrida : but I am grown cunninger now ; and Alftruda 
is an easier game to fly at. I may have said to her, 
for instance, that she had better have chosen me ; and 
been answered by gentle wailings about who should 
protect her in her loneliness : I may have offered to do so 
myself, and been shrieked at with * Out traitor ! Wretch ! ' 
and yet have visited Bourne again — in all honesty, mind 
you, my lords. And I may have talked with a pretty 



.366 . Hereward 

bower-maiden, and have said that though Abbot Thorold 
be poor, yet he has a ring or two left, or atn owch, or such 
like, which might be earned by service due. And so 
forth. Wait for me, my good lords all ; and I will not 
keep you waiting long." 

And so those wicked men took counsel together to slay 
Hereward. 



The Wake. 367 



CHAPTER XXII. 

HOW HEREWARD BEGAN TO GET HIS SOUL*S PRICE. 

And now behold Hereward at home again, fat with 
the wages of sin, and not knowing that they are death. 

He is once more "Dominus de Brunne cum Ma- 
risco," Lord of Bourne with the fen, "with all returns 
and liberties and all other things adjacent to the same 
vill which are now held as a barony from the Lord King 
of England." He has a fair young wife, and with her 
farms and manors even richer than his own. He is still 
young, hearty, wise by experience, high in the king's 
favoiu", and deservedly so. 

Why should he not begin life again ? 

Why not 1 Unless it be true that the wages of sin 
are, not a new Hfe, but death. 

And yet he had his troubles. Hardly a French 
knight or baron roxmd but had a blood-feud against him, 
for a kinsman slain. Oger the Breton was not likely to 
forgive his wounded arm. Sir Aswart, Thorold the 
abbot's man, was not likely to forgive him for turning 
him out of the three Manthorpe manors, which he had 



368 Hereward 

comfortably held for two years past, and sending him 
back to lounge in the abbot's hall at Peterborough, 
without a yard of land which he could call his own. Sir 
Ascelin was not likely to forgive him for marrying 
Alftruda, whom he had intended to many himsel£ Ivo 
Taillebois was not likely to forgive him for existing within 
a hundred miles of Spalding^ any more than the wolf 
would foigive the lamb for fouling the water below him. 
Beside^ had not he (Ivo) married Hereward's niece % 
And what more grievous offence could Hereward 
commit, than to be her uncle, reminding Ivo of his own 
low birth by his nobility, and too likely to take Lucia's 
part, whenever it should please Ivo to beat or kick herl 
Only Gilbert of Ghent, " the pious and illustrious earl," 
sent messages of congratulation and friendship to Here- 
ward, it being his custom to sail with the wind, and 
worship the rising sun — ^tiU it should decline again. 

But more : hardly one of the Frenchmen round, bu^ 
in the conceit of their skin-deep yesterday's civilisation, 
looked on Hereward as a barbarian Englishman, who had 
his throat tattooed, and wore a short coat, and preferred 
— the churl — ^to talk English in his own hall, though he 
could talk as good French as they when he ^ was with 
them, beside three or four barbarian tongues if he had 
need. 

But more still : if they were not Hkely to bestow their 
love on Pereward, Hereward was not likely to win love 



The Wake. 369 

from them of his own will. He was peevish and wrathful, 
often insolent and quarrelsome: and small blame to him. 
The French were invaders and tyrants, who had no busi- 
ness there, and would not have been there, if he had had 
his way. And they and he could no more amalgamate 
than fire and water. Moreover, he was a very great 
man, or had been such once, and he thought himself one 
still. He had been accustomed to command men, whole 
armies; and he would no more treat these French as 
his equals, than they would treat him as such. His own 
son-in-law, Hugh of Evermue, had to take hard words, 
— ^thoroughly well deserved, it may be : but all the more 
unpleasant for that reason. 

The truth was, that Hereward's heart was gnawed 
with shame and remorse; and therefore he fancied, 
and not without reason, that all men pointed at him 
the finger of scorn. 

He had done a bad, base, accursed deed. And he 
knew it* Once in his life — ^for his other sins were but 
the sins of his age — the Father of men seems (if the 
chroniclers say truth) to have put before this splendid 
barbarian good and evil, saying. Choose 1 And he knew 
that the evil was evil, and chose it nevertheless. 

Eight hundred years after, a far greater genius and 
greater general had the same choice — as far as human 
cases of conscience can be alike — ^put before him. And 
he chose as Hereward chose. 

VOL. II. B B 



37© Jlereward 

But as wUh Napoleon and Josephine; so it was with 
Hereward.and Torfrida. . Neither throve after. 

It was not punished by miracle. What sin ia? It 
worked out its own punishment;. that which it merited, 
deserved, or earned^ by its own labour. No man could 
commit such a. sin without shaking his whole character 
to the root. Hereward tried to persuade himself that 
his was not shaken ; that he was the same Hereward as 
ever. But he could not deceive himself long. His 
conscience .was evil. He t^s discontented with all 
mankind, and with himself most of all He tried to be 
good, — as good as he chose to bel If he had done 
wrong in one thing, he might .make up for it in others : 
but he could not AU.his higher instincts fell from him 
one by one. He did not like to think of good and 
noble things'; he* dar^d not think of theml He felt,, 
not at first, but as the months rolled on, that he was 
a chianged .man ; that God had left him. His old biad 
habits began to return to him. Gradually he sank back* 
more and more into .the very vices from which Torfrida 
had raised him sixteen years befoite. He took to drink- 
ing again, t6 dull the malady of thought; he excused 
himself to himself;. he wished to forget his defeats, his 
disappointment, the ruin of his countrjr, the splendid past 
which lay behind him like a dream. True : but he 
wished to forget likewise Torfrida fasting and weeping in 
Crowland. He could not bear the sight of Crowland 



The Wake. 371 

tower on the far green horizon, the sound of Crowland 
bells booming over the flat on the south wind. He 
never rode down into the fens ; he never went to see his' 
daughter at Deeping, because Crowland lay that way. 
He went up into the old Bruneswald ; hunted all day 
long through the glades where he and his merry men had 
done their doughty deeds; and came home in the 
evening to get drunk. 

Then he lost his sleep. He sent down to Crowland 
to Leofric the priest, that he might come to him, and 
sing him sagas of the old heroes, that he might get rest 
Biit Leofric sent back for answer, that he would not 
come. 

That night Alftruda heard him by her side in the still 
hours, weeping silently to himself. She caressed him : 
but he gave no heed to her. 

"I believe," said she bitterly at last, "that you love 
Torfrida sidll better than you do me." 

And Hereward answered, like Mahomet in like case,' 
" That do I, by heaven. She believed in me when no 
one else in the world did." 

And the vain hard Alftruda answered angrily; and' 
there was many a fierce quarrel between them after that 

With his love of drinking, his love of boasting came 
back. Because he could do no more great deeds — or 
rather had not the spirit left in him to do more — ^he 
must needs, like a worn-out old man, babble of the 

B B 2 



37^ Hereward 

great deeds which he had done; insult and defy his 
Nonnan neighbours; often talk what might be easily 
caricatured into treason against King William himsel£ 

There were great excuses for his follies, as there are 
for those of every beaten man : but Hereward was spent 
He had lived his life; and had no more life which he 
could Uve ; for every man, it would seem, brings into 
the world with him a certain capacity, a certain amount 
of vital force, in body and in soul ; and when that is 
used up, the man must sink down into some sort of 
second childhood; and end, like Hereward, very much 
where he began : unless the grace of God shall lift him 
up above the capacity of the mere flesh, into a life 
Kterally new, ever-renewing, ever-expanding, and eternal. 
But the grace of God had gone away froin Hereward, 
as it goes away from all men who are unfaithful to their 
wives. 

It was very pitiable. Let no man judge him. Life, 
to most, is very hard work. There are those who en- 
dure to the end, and are saved ;. there are those, agsdn, 
who do not endure: upon whose souls may God have 
mercy. 

So Hereward soon became as intolerable to his Nor^ 
man neighbours, as they were intolerable to him ; and he 
had, for his own safety, to keep up at Bourne the same 
watch and ward, by day and night, as he had kept up in 
the forest 



77ie Wake. 373 

In those days a messenger came riding post to 
Bourne. The Countess Judith wished ta visit the tomb 
of her late husband, Earl Waltheof ; and asked hos- 
pitality on her road of Hereward and Alftruda, 

Of course she would come with a great train, and the 
trouble and expense would be great But the hospitality 
of those days, when money was scarce, and wine scarcer 
still, was unbounded, and a matter of course ; and 
Alftruda wsgs overjoyed. No doubt, Judith was the most 
unpopular person in England at that moment ; called by 
all a traitress and a fiend. But she was an old acquaint* 
ance of Alftruda's ; she was the king's niece ; she was 
immensely rich, not only in manors of her own, but in 
manors, as Domesday book testifies, about Lincolnshire 
and the counties round, which had belonged to her mur- 
dered husband — ^which she had too probably received as 
the price of her treason. So Alftruda looked to her visit 
as to an honour which would enable her to hold her head 
high among the proud French Dames, who despised her 
as the wife of an Englishman. 

Hereward looked on the visit in a different light. He 
' called Judith ugly names, not undeserved; and vowed 
that if she entered his house by the front door he would 
go out at the back. "Torfrida prophesied," he said, 
^^that she would betray her husband, and she has 
done it." 

"Torfrida prophesied] Did she prophesy that I 



374 ^Hereward 

should betray you likewise % " asked Alflxuda, in a tone 
of bitter scorn. 

*' No, you handsome fiend : will you do it?" 
" Yes > I am a handsome fiend, am I not 1" and she 
tnidled up her magnificent beauty, and stood over him as 
a snake stands over a mouse. 

" Yes ; you are handsome — beautifiil : I adore you." 
^ And yet you will not do what I wish 1 " 
"What you wish? What would I not do for you? 
what have I not done for you ? " 

■ "Then receive Judith. And now, go hunting, and 
bring me in game. I want deer, roe, fowls ; anything 
and everything, from the greatest to the smallest Go 
and hunt" 

And Hereward trembled and went 
There are flowers whose scent is so luscious that silly 
diildren will plunge their heads among them, drinking 
in their odour, to the exclusion of all firesh air. On a 
sudden, sometimes, comes a revulsion of the nerves. 
The delicious odour changes in a moment to a disgusting 
one ;• and the child cannot bear for years after the scent 
which has once become intolerable by over-sweetness. 
And so had it happened to Hereward. He did not love 
Alftruda now ; he loathed, hated, dreaded her. And yet 
he could not take his eyes for a moment off her beauty. 
He watched every movement of her hand, to press it, 
obey it He would have preferred instead of himting 



77ie Wake. 375 

isimply to sit and watch her go about the house at her 
work. He was spell-bound to a thing which he regarded 
with horror. 

But he was told to go and hunt ; and he went, with 
all his men, and sent home large supplies for the larder. 
And as he himted, the free fresh air of the forest com- 
forted him, the free forest life came back to him, and he 
longed to be an outlaw once more, and hunt on for ever. 
He would not go back yet,.at least to face that Judith. 
So he sent back the greater part of his men with a story. 
He was ill : he was laid up at a farmhouse far away in 
the forest, and begged the countess to excuse his absence. 
He had sent fresh supplies of game, and a goodly com- 
pany of his men, knights and housecarles, who would 
escort her royally to Crowland. 

Judith cared little for his absence; he was but an 
English barbarian. Alftruda was half glad to have him 
out of the way, lest his now sullen and uncertain temper 
should break out \ and bowed herself to the earth before 
Judith, who patronised her to her heart's content, and 
offered her slily insolent condolences on being mar- 
ried to a barbarian. She herself could sympathise — ^who 
morel 

Alflruda might have answered with scorn that she was 
a princessj and of better English blood than Judith's 
French blood ; but she had her ends to gain, and gained 
them. 



376 Hereward 

For Judith was pleased to be so delighted with her 
that she kissed her lovingly, and said with much emotion 
that she required a friend who would support her through 
her coming trial ; and who better than one who herself 
had suffered so muchi Would she accompany her to 
Crowland 1 

Alftruda was overjoyed, and away they went. 

And to Crowland they came \ and to the tomb in the 
minster, whereof men were saying already that the sacred 
corpse within worked miracles of healing. 

And Judith, habited in widow's weeds, approached the 
tomb, and laid on it, as a peace-offering to the soul of 
the dead, a splendid pall of silk and gold. 

A fierce blast came howling off the fen, screeched 
through the minster towers, swept along the dark aisles ; 
and then, so say the chroniclers, caught up the pall &om 
off the tomb, and hurled it far away into a comer. 

'^ A miracle 1 *' cried all the monks at once ; and 
honestly enough, like true Englishmen as they were. 

'' The Holy Saint refuses the gift. Countess," said old 
Ulf ketyl, in a voice of awe. 

Judith covered her face with her hands, turned away 
trembling,' and walked out ; while all looked upon her as 
a thing accursed. 

Of her subsequent life, her folly, her wantonness^ 
her disgrace, her poverty, her wanderings, her wretched 
death, let others tell. 



7%e Wake, 377 

But these Normans believed that the curse of 
Heaven was upon her firom that day. And the best of 
them believed likewise that Waltheofs murder was 
the reason that William, her imcle, prospered no more 
in life. 

" Ah, saucy sir," said Alftruda to Ulfketyl, as she went 
out. " There is one waiting at Peterborough now who 
will teach thee manners ; Ingulf of Fontenelle, abbot in 
thy room." 

" Does Hereward know that % " asked Ulfketyl, look- 
ing keenly at her. 

" What is that to thee 1 " said she, fiercely ; and flung 
out of the minster. But Hereward did not know. 
There were many things abroad, of which she told him 
nothing. 

They went back, and were landed at Deeping town, 
and making their way along the King Street to Bourne. 
Thereon a man met them running. They had best stay 
where they were. The Frenchmen were out, and there 
was fighting up in Bourne. 

Alftruda's knights wanted to push on, to see after the 
Bourne folk ; Judith's knights wanted to push on to help 
the French : and the two parties were ready to fight each 
other. There was a great tumult The ladies had much 
ado to still it 

Alftruda said that it might be but a countryman's 
rumour; that, at least, it was shame to quarrel with their 



3J8 Hereward 

guests. At last it was agreed that two knights should 
gallop on into Boume, and bring back news. 

But those knights never came back. So the whole 
body moved on Bourne, and there they found out the 
news for themselves. 

Hereward had gone home as soon as they had de- 
parted, and sat down to eat and drink. His manner 
was sad and strange. He drank much at the midday 
meal, and then lay down to sleep, setting guards a$ 
usual. 

After awhile he leapt up with a shriek and shudder. 

They ran to him, asking whether he was ill. 
. " 111 % No. , Yes. Ill at heart . I have had a dream 
— an ugly dream. I thought that all the men I ever 
slew on earth, came to me with their wounds all gaping, 
and cried at me, * Our luck then, thy luck now.' Chap- 
lain! Is there not a verse soi^ewhere — ^Uncle Brand 
said it to me on his deathbed — ' Whoso sheddeth man's 
Wood, by man shall his blood be shed 1' " 

"Surely the master is fey," whispered Gwenoch 
in fear to the chaplain. "Answer him out of Scrip- 
ture." 

" Text ? None such that I know of," quoth Priest 
Ailward, a graceless fellow, who had taken LeoMc's 
place. "If that were the law, it would be but few 
honest men that would die in their beds. Let us drink, 
and drive girls* fancies out of our heads." 



The Wake. 379 

So they drank again ; and Hereward fell asleep once 
more. 

"It IS thy turn to watch, priest," said Winter to 
Ailward. " So keep the door well, for I am worn out 
with hunting," and so fell asleep. 

Ailward shuffled into his harness, and went to the 
door. The wine was heady; the sun was hot. In a 
few minutes he was asleep likewise. 

Hereward slept, who can tell how long ? But at last 
there was a bustle, a heavy fall ; and waking with a start, 
he sprang up. He saw Ailward lying dead across the 
door, and above him a crowd of fierce faces, some of 
which he knew too well. He saw Ivo Taillebois \ he 
saw Oger \ he saw his fellow^Breton, Sir Raoul de Dol ; 
he saw Sir Ascelin ; he saw Sir Aswart, Thorold's man \ 
he saw Sir Hugh of Evermue, his own son-in-law ; and 
witii them he saw, or seemed to see, the Ogre of Corn- 
wall, and Feargus of Ivark, and Dirk Hammerhand of 
Walcheren, and many another old foe long undergroimd \ 
and in his ear rang the text — " Whoso sheddeth man's 
blood, by man shall his blood be shed." And Hereward 
knew that his end was come. 

There was no time to put on mail or helmet He saw 
sword and shield hang on a perch, and tore them down. 
As he girded the sword on. Winter sprang to his side. 

" I have three lances — ^two for me and one for you, 
and we can hold the door against twenty." 



380 Hereward 

" Till they fire the house over our heads. Shall Here- 
ward die like a wolf in a cave % Forward, all The Wake 
men! A Wake ! A Wake!" 

And he rushed out upon his fate. No man followed 
him, save Winter. The rest, dispersed, unarmed, were 
running hither and thither helplessly. 

" Brothers in arms, and brothers in Valhalla !" shouted 
Winter as he rushed after him. 

A knight was running to and fro in the Court, shout- 
ing Hereward*s name. " Where is the villain ? Wake ! 
We have caught thee asleep at last." 

"I am out," quoth Hereward, as the man almost 
stumbled against him ; " and this is in." 

And through shield, and hauberk, and body, as 
says Gaimar, went Hereward's javelin, while all drew 
back, confounded for the moment at that mighty 
stroke, 

"Felons!" shouted Hereward, "your king has given 
me his truce ; and do you dare break my house, and kill 
my folk % Is that your French law 1 And is this your 
French honour? — To take a dmh imawares over his 
meat % Come on, traitors all, and get what you can of 
a naked man;* you will buy it dear — Guard my back, 
Winter 1 " 

And he ran right at the press of knights] and the 

fight began, 

* i. e. without armour. 



The Wake. . 381 



" He gored them like a wood wild boar, 
As long as that lance might endure,'* 

Says Gaimar. 

" And when that lance did break in hand, 
Full fell enough he smote with brand. *' 

And as he hewed on silently, with grinding teeth, and 
hard, glittering eyes, of whom did he think ? Of Alf- 
truda) 

Not so. But of that pale ghost, with great black 
hollow eyes, who sat in Crowland, with thin bare feet, 
.and sackcloth on her tender limbs, watching, praying, 
longing, loving, uncomplaining. That ghost had been for 
many a month the background of all his thoughts and 
dreams. It was so dear before his mind's eye now, that 
unawares to himself, he shouted, "Torfrida!" as he 
struck, and struck the harder at the sound of his old 
battle-cxy. 

And now he is all wounded and be-bled \ and Winter, 
who has fought back to back with him, has fallen on his 
&ce ; and Hereward stands alone, turning from side to 
side, as he sweeps his sword right and left till the 
forest rings with the blows, but staggering as he turns. 
Within a ring of eleven corpses he stands. Who will 
ga in and make the twelfth 1 

A knight rushes in, to fall headlong down, cloven 
through the helm: but Hereward's blade snaps short, 
and he hurls it away as his foes rush in with a shout 



382 Hereward 

of joy. He tears his shield from his left arm, and with 
it> says Gaimar, brains two more. 

But the end is come. Taillebois and Evermue are 
behind him now ; four lances are through his back, and 
bear him down upon his knees. 

" Cut off his head, Breton ! " shouted Ivo. Raoul de 
Dol rushed forward, sword in hand. At that cry Here- 
ward lifted up his dying head. One stroke more ere it 
was all done for ever. 

And with a shout of " Torfrida I " which made the 
Bruneswald ring, he hurled the shield full in the Breton's 
face, and fell forward dead. 

The knights drew their lances from that terrible corpse" 
slowly and with caution, as men who have felled a bear, 
and yet dare not step within reach of the seemingly life- 
less paw» 

" The dog died hard," said Ivo. " Lucky for us that 
Sir AsceBn had news of his knights being gone to Crow- 
land. If he had had them to b^ck him, we had not 
done this deed to-day." 

" I must keep my word with him," said Ascelin, as he 
struck off the once fair and golden head« 

" Ho, Breton,*' cried Ivo, " the villain is dead; Get 
up, man, and see for yourself. What ails him % ^ 

But when they lifted up Raoul de Dol his brains were 
running down his face ; and all men stood astonished at 
that last mighty stroke. 



The Wake. 5S3 

'^ That blow," said Ascelin, '^ will be sung hereafter by 
minstrel and maiden as die last blow of the last English- 
man. Knights, we have slain a better knight than our^ 
selves. If there had been three more such men in this 
realm, they would have driven us and King William back 
again into the sea.** 

So said Asceliii ; ^ose wotds of his, too, were sung 
by mainy a jongleur, Norman as well as English, in the 
times that were to conie. 

"Likely enough:" said Ivo; "but that is the more 
reason why we should set that head of his up over the 
hall-door, as a warning to vthese English churls that their 
last man is dead, and their last stake thrown and lost." 

So perished " The last of the English." 

It was the third day. The French were drinking in 
the hall of Bourne, advising ^celin, with coarse jests^ 
to lose no time in espousing the fair Alftruda, who sat 
weeping within over the headless corpse \ when in the 
afternoon a servant came in, and told them how a bar^ 
full of monks had come to the shore, and that they 
seemed to be monks from Crowland. Ivo Taillebois 
bade drive them back again into the barge with whips. 
But Hugh of Evermue spoke up. 

" I am lord and master in Bourne this day \ and if Ivo 
have a quarrel against St. Guthlac, I have none. This 
Ingulf of Fontenelle, the new abbot who has come 
thither since old Ulfketyl was sent to prison, is a loyal 



384 Hereward 

man, and a friend of King William's \ and my friend he 
shall be till he behaves himself as my foe. Let them 
come up in peace." 

Taillebois growled and cursed : but the monks came 
up, and into the hall ; and at their head Ingulf himself, 
to receive whom all men rose, save Taillebois. 

"I come," said Ingulf, in most courtly French, 
'' noble knights, to ask a boon in the name of the 
Most Mercifid, on behalf of a noble and unhappy .lady. 
Let it be enough to have avenged yourself on the 
living. Gentlemen and Christians war not against the 
dead." • 

" No, no, Master Abbot !" -shouted Taillebois ; " Wal- 
theof is enough to keep Crowland in miracles for the 
present. You shall not make a martyr of another Saxon 
churL He wants the barbarian's body, knights, and you 
will be fools if you let him have it." 
• ^^ Churl? Barbarian r' said a haughty voice; and a 
mn stepped forward who had stood just behind Ingulf. 
She was clothed entirely in black. Her bare feet were 
bleeding from the stones : her hand, as she lifted it, was 
as thin as a skeleton's. 

She threw back her veil, and showed to the knights 
what had been once the famous beauty of Torfrida. 

But the beauty was long passed away. Her hair was 
white as snow ; her cheeks were fallen in. Her hawk« 
like features were all sharp and hard. Only in their 



77u Wake, 385 

hollow sockets burned still the great black eyes, so 
fiercely that all men turned uneasily firom her gaze. 

" Churl % Barbarian % " she said slowly and quietly, 
but with an intensity which was more terrible than rage. 
" Who gi'^es such names to one who was as much better 
bom and better bred than they who now sit here, as he 
was braver and more terrible than they? The base 
woodcutter's son? — The upstart who would have been 
honoured had he taken service as yon dead man's 
groom % " 

" Talk to me so, and my stirrup leathers shall make 
acquaintance with your sides," said Taillebois. 

" Keep them for your wife. Churl % Barbarian % 
There is not a man within this hall who is not a bar- 
barian compared with him. Which of you touched the 
harp like him % Which of you, like him, could move all 
hearts with song? Which of you knows all tongues 
from Lapland to Provence % Which of you has been 
the joy of ladies' bowers, the counsellor of earls and 
heroes, the rival of a mighty king % Which of you will 
compare yourself with him — ^whom you dared not even 
strike, you and your robber crew, fairly in front, but 
skulked round himi till he fell pecked to death by you, as 
Lapland Skratlings peck to death the bear % Ten years 
ago he swept this hall of such as you, and hung their 
heads upon yon gable outside ; and were he alive but 
one five minutes, this hall would be right cleanly swept 

VOJi. II. CO 



386 Hereward 

again ! Give me his body — or bear for ever the name 
of cowards, and Torfrida's curse." 

She fixed her terrible eyes first on one, and then on 
another, calling them by name. 

" Ivo Taillebois — ^basest of all ^' 

" Take the witch's accursed eyes off me ! " and he 
covered his face with his hands. " I shall be overlooked 
— ^planet-struck. Hew the witch down 1 Take her 
away ! '* 

" Hugh of Evermue — The dead man's daughter is 
yours, and the dead man's lands. Are not these remem- 
brances enough of him 1 Are you so fond of his memory 
that you need his corpse likewise ?" 

" Give it her ! Give it her ! " said he, hanging down 
his head like a rated cur. 

" A^celin of Lincoln, once Ascelin of Ghent — There 
was a time when you would have done — what would you 
not ? — for one glance of Torfiida's eyes. — Stay. * Do not 
deceive yourself, fair sir. Torfiida means to ask no 
favour of you, or of living man. But she commands you. 
Do the thing she bids, or with one glance of her eye she 
sends you childless to your grave." 

** Madam! Lady Torfiida! What is there I would 
not do for you % What have I done now, save avenge 
your great wrong % " 

Torfrida made no answer : but fixed steadily on him 
eyes which widened every moment. 



The Wake, 387 

"But, madam" — ^and he turned shrinking from the 
fancied spell — "what would you have? The — the 
corpse I It is in the keeping of — of another lady." 

"So?" said Torfrida, quietly. "Leave her to me;" 
and she swept past them all, and flung open the bower 
door at their backs, discovering Alftruda sitting by the 
dead. 

The ruffians were so utterly appalled, not only by the 
felse powers of magic, but by the veritable powers of 
majesty and eloquence, that they let her do what she 
would. 

" Out ! " cried she, using a short and terrible epithet. 
" Out, siren, with fairy's face and tail of fiend, and leave 
the husband with his wife ! " 

Alftruda looked up, shrieked; and then, with the 
sudden passion of a weak nature, drew a little knife, 
and sprang up. 

Ivo made a coarse jest The Abbot sprang in : " For 
the sake of all holy things, let there be no more murder 
here ! " 

Torfrida smiled, and fixed her snake's eye upon her 
wretched rival 

" Out ! woman, and choose thee a new husband among 
these French gallants, ere I blast thee from head to foot 
with the leprosy of Naaman the Syrian." 

Alftruda shuddered, and fled shrieking into an inner 
room. 

c c 2 



2^SS Hereward 

^*Now, knights, give me — ^that which hangs out- 
side." 

Ascelin hurried out, glad to escape. In a minute he 
returned. 

The head was already taken down. A tall lay brother, 
the moment he had seen it, had climbed the gable, 
snatched it away, and now sat in a comer of the yard, 
holding it on his knees, talking to it, chiding it, as if it 
had been alive. When men had offered to take it, 
he had drawn a battle-axe from under his frock, and 
threatened to brain all comers. And the monks had 
warned off Ascelin, saying that the man was mad, and 
had Berserk fits of superhuman strength and rage. 

" He will give it me," said Torfrida, and went out. 

** Look at that gable, foolish head,'' said the madman. 
" Ten years agone, you and I took down from thence 
another head. Oh, foolish head, to get yourself at last 
up into that same place ! Why would you not be ruled 
by her, you foolish golden head % " 

" Martin ! " said Torfrida, 

" Take it and comb it, mistress, as you used to do. 
Comb out the golden locks again, fit to shine across the 
battle-field. She has let them all get tangled into elf- 
knots, that lazy slut within." 

Torfrida took it from his hands, dry-eyed, and went in. 

Then the monks silently took up the bier, and all 
went forth, and down the Roman road toward the fen. 



The Wake. 389 

They laid the corpse within the barge, and slowly rowed 
away. 

And past the Deeping, down the Welland stream, 
By wmdmg reaches on, and shining meres 
Between grey reed-ronds and green alder-beds, 
And the brown horror of the homeless fen, 
A dirge of monks and wail of women rose 
In vain to Heaven for the last Englishman ; 
Then died far off within the boundless mist, 
And left the Frenchman master of the land. 

So Torfrida took the corpse home to Crowland, 
and buried it in the choir, near the blessed martyr 
St. Waltheof ; after which she did not die, but lived on 
many years,* spending all day in nursing and feeding the 
Countess Godiva, and lying all night on Hereward*s 
tomb, and praying that he might find grace and mercy 
in that day. 

And at last Godiva died ; and they took her away, and 
buried her with great pomp in her own minster-church 
of Coventry. 

And after that Torfrida died likewise ; because she liad 
nothing else for which to live. And they laid her in 
Hereward*s grave, and their dust is mingled to this day. 

And Oger the Breton got back Morcar's lands, and 
held them at least till the time of Domesday Book. But 
Manthorpe, Toft, and Witham, Aswart, Thorold*s man, 

• If Ingulf can be trusted, Torfrida died about A.D. 1085. 



39© Herewdrd 

got back ; and they were held for several centuries by the 
Abbey of Peterborough, seemingly as some set off for 
Abbot Thorold's thirty thousand marks. 

And Ivo Taillebois did evil mightily all his days ; and 
how he died, and what befel him after death, let Peter 
of Blois declare. 

And Leo&ic the priest lived on to a good old age, and 
above all things he remembered the deeds and the sins 
of his master; and wrote them in a book, and this is 
what remains thereof. 

But when Martin Lightfoot died no man has said ; for 
no man in those days took account of such poor churls 
and running serving-men. 

And Hereward's comrades were all scattered abroad, 
some maimed, some blinded, some with tongues cut out, 
to beg by the wayside, or crawl into convents, and then 
die ; while their sisters and daughters, ladies bom and 
bred, were the slaves of grooms and scullions from 
beyond the sea. 

And so, as sang Thorkel Skallason — 



Cold heart and bloody hand 
Now rule English land." 



And after that things waxed even worse and worse, 
for sixty years and more ; all through the reigns of the 
two Williams, and of Henry Beauclerc, and of Stephen ; 
till men saw visions and portents, and thought that the 

♦ Laing's Heunskringla. 



The Wake, 391 

foul fiend was broken loose on earth. And they whis- 
pered oftener and oftener that the soul of Hereward 
haunted the Brunesvrald, where he ployed to hunt the 
dun deer and the roe. And in the Bruneswald, when 
Henry of Poitou was made abbot,* men saw — " let no 
man think lightly of the marvel which we are about to 
relate as a truth, for it was well known all over the 
country — ^upon the Sunday, when men sing, *Exsurge 
quare, O Domine,* many hunters hunting, black, and 
tall, and loathly, and their hounds were black and ugly 
with wide eyes, and they rode on black horses and 
black bucks. And they saw them in the very deer park 
in the town of Peterborough, and in all the woods to 
Stamford ; and the monks heard the blasts of the horns 
which they blew in the night Men of truth kept watch 
upon them, and said that there might be well about 
twenty or thirty horn-blowers. This was seen and heard 
all that Lent until Easter." And the French monks of 
Peterborough said how it was The Wake, doomed to 
wake for ever with ApoUyon and all his crew, because 
he had stolen the riches of the Golden Borough : but the 
poor folk knew better, and said, That the mighty outlaw 
was rejoicing in the chase, blowing his horn for English- 
men to rise against the French; and therefore it was 
that he was seen first on " Arise O Lord " Sunday. 
But they were so sore trodden down that they could 

* Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, A.D. 1 12 7. 



392 Hereward 

never rise ; for " the French* had filled the land fiill of 
castles. They greatly oppressed the wretched people by 
making them work at these castles ; and when the castles 
were finished, they filled them with devils and evil men. 
They took those whom they suspected of having any 
goods, both men and women, and they put them in 
prison for their gold and silver, and tortured them with 
pains unspeakable, for never were any martyrs tor- 
mented as these were. They hung some by their feet, 
and smoked them with foul smoke ; some by the thumbs 
or by the head, and put burning things on their feet. 
They put a knotted string round their heads, and twisted 
it till it went into the brain. They put them in dungeons 
wherein were adders, and snakes, and toads, and thus 
wore them out Some they put into a crucet-house — 
that is, into a chest that was short and narrow, and they 
put sharp stones therein, and crushed the man so that 
they broke all his bones. There were hatefiil and grim 
things called Sachenteges in many of the castles, which 
two or three men had enough to do to carry. This 
Sachentege was made thus : — It was fastened to a beam, 
having a sharp iron to go round a man's throat and neck, 
so that he might no wa3rs sit, nor lie, nor sleep, but he 
must bear all the iron. Many thousands they wore out 
with hunger. . . . They were continually levying a tax 
from the towns, which they called Truserie, and when 
^ Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, A.D. 1137. 



The Wake. 393 

the wretched townsfolk had no more to ^e, then burnt 
they all the towns, so that well mightest thou walk a 
whole day's journey or ever thou shouldest see a man 
settled in a town, or its lands tilled . • » • 

"Then was com dear, and flesh, and cheese, and 
butter, for there was none in the land. Wretched men 
starved with hunger. Some lived on alms who had been 
once rich. Some fled the country. Never was there 
more misery, and never heathens acted worse than 
these." 

For now the sons of the Church's darlings, of the 
Crusaders whom the Pope had sent, beneath a gonfanon 
blessed by him, to destroy the liberties of England, 
turned, by a just retribution, upon that very French 
clergy who had abetted all their iniquities in the name 
of Rome. "They spared neither church nor church- 
yard, but took all that was valuable therein, and then 
burned the church and all together. Neither did they 
spare the lands of bishops, nor of abbots, nor of priests : 
but they robbed the monks and clergy, and every man 
plundered his neighbom: as much as he could. If two 
or three men came riding to a town, all the townsfolk 
fled before them, and thought that they were robbers. ' 
The bishops and clergy were for ever cursing them : but 
this to them was nothing, for they were all accursed 
and forsworn and reprobate. The earth bare no com : 
you might as well have tilled the sea ; for all the land was 



394 Hereward 

ruined by such deeds, and it was said openly that Christ 
and His saints slept" 

And so was avenged the blood of Harold and his 
brothers, of Edwin and Morcar, of Waltheof and 
Hereward 

And those who had the spirit of Hereward in them, 
fled to the merry greenwood, and became bold outlaws, 
with Robin Hood, Scarlet, and John, Adam Bell, and 
Clym of the Cleugh, and William of Cloudeslee ; and 
watched with sullen joy the French robbers tearing in 
pieces each other, and the Church who had blest their 
crime. 

And they talked and sung of The Wake, and all his 
doughty deeds, over the hearth in lone farm-houses, or 
in the outlaw's lodge beneath the hoUins green ; and all 
the burden of their song was, " Ah that The Wake were 
alive again 1 " for they knew not that The Wake was alive 
for evermore : that only his husk and shell lay moulder- 
ing the^e in Crowland choir; that above them, and 
around them, and in them, destined t6 raise them out of 
that bitter bondage, and mould them into a great nation, 
and the parents of still greater nations in lands as yet 
unknown, brooded the immortal spirit of The Wake, 
now purged from all earthly dross — even the spirit of 
Freedom, which can. never die. 



The Wake. 395 



CHAPTER XXIII. 

HOW DEEPING FEN WAS DRAINED. 

But war and disorder, ruin and death, cannot last for 
ever. They are by their own nature exceptional and 
suicidal, and spend themselves with what they feed on. 
And then the true laws of God's universe, peace and 
order, usefulness and life, will reassert themselves, as 
they have been waiting all along to do, hid in God*s 
presence from the strife of men. 

And even so it was with Bourne. 

Nearly eighty years after, in the year of grace, 1155, 
there might have been seen sitting, side by side, and 
hand in hand, upon a sunny bench on the Bruneswald 
slope, in the low December sun, an old knight and an 
old lady, the master and mistress of Bourne. 

Much had changed since Hereward's da)rs. The 
house below had been raised a whole story. There 
were fresh herbs and flowers in the garden, unknown at 
the time of the Conquest But the great change was in 
the fen, especially away toward Deeping, on the south- 
eastern horizon. 



39^ Hereward 

Where had been lonely meres, foul watercourses, 
stagnant slime, there were now great dykes, rich and 
fair com and grass lands, rows of white cottages. 
The newly-drained land swarmed with stocks of new 
breeds : horses and sheep from Flanders, cattle from 
Normandy; for Richard de Rulos was the first — ^as far 
as history tells — of that noble class of agricultural 
squires, who are England's blessing and England's 
pride. 

" For this Richard de Rulos," sa)rs Ingulf, or whoever 
wrote in his name, " who had married the daughter and 
heiress of Hugh of Evermue, Lord of Bourne and Deep- 
ing, being a man of agricultural pursuits, got permission 
from the monks of Crowland, for twenty marks of silver, 
to enclose as much as he would of the common marshes. 
So he shut out the Welland by a strong embankment, 
and building thereon numerous tenements and cottages, 
till in a short time he formed a large ' vill,' marked out 
gardens, and cultivated fields ; while, by shutting out the 
river, he found in the meadow land, which had been 
lately deep lakes and impassable marshes (wherefore the 
place was called Deeping, the deep meadow), most 
fertile fields and desirable lands, and out of sloughs 
and bogs accursed made quite a garden of pleasaunce." 

So there the good man, the beginner of the good work 
of centuries, sat looking out over the fen, and listening 
to the music which came on the southern breeze, above 



The Wake. 397 

the low of the kine, and the clang of the wild-fowl set- 
tling down to rest, from the bells of Crowland Minster 
far away. 

They were not the same bells which tolled for Here- 
ward and Torfrida, Those had run down in molten 
streams upon that fatal night when Abbot Ingulf leapt 
out of bed to see the vast wooden sanctuary wrapt in 
one sheet of roaring flame, from the carelessness of a 
plumber who had raked the ashes over his fire in the 
bell-tower, and left it to smoulder through the night. 

Then perished all the riches of Crowland ; its library 
too, of more than seven hundred volumes, with that 
famous Nadir, or Orrery, the like whereof was not in all 
England, wherein the seven planets were represented, 
each in their proper metals. And even worse, all the 
charters of the monastery perished, a loss which involved 
the monks thereof in centuries of lawsuits, and compelled 
them to become as industrious and skilful forgers of 
documents as were to be found in the minsters of the 
middle age. 

But Crowland Minster had been rebuilt in greater 
glory than ever, by the help of the French gentry 
round. Abbot Ingulf, finding that St. Guthlac's plain 
inability to take care of himself had discredited him 
much in the fen-men's eyes, fell back. Frenchman as he 
was, on the virtues of the holy martyr, St. Waltheof, 
whose tomb he opened with due reverence, and found 



398 Hereward 

the body as whole and uncorrupted as on the day on 
which it was buried ; and the head united to the body, 
while a fine crimson line around the neck was the only 
sign remaining of his decollation. 

On seeing which Ingulf "could not contain himself 
for joy; and interrupting the response which the brethren 
were singing, with a loud voice began the hymn *Te 
Deum Laudamus,' on which the chaunter taking it up, 
enjoined the rest of the brethren to sing it" After 
which Ingulf — ^who had never seen Waltheof in life — 
discovered that it was none other than he whom he had 
seen in a vision at Fontenelle, as an earl most gorgeously 
arrayed, with a tore of gold about his neck, and with 
him an abbot, two bishops, and two saints, the three 
former being Usfran, Ausbert, and Wandresigil of Fon- 
tenelle ; and the two saints, of course St. Guthlac and 
St. NeoL 

Whereon, crawling on his hands and knees, he kissed 
the face of the holy majctyx, and " perceived such a sweet 
odour proceeding firom the holy body, as he never re- 
membered to have smelt, either in the palace of the 
king, or in Syria with all its aromatic herbs." 

Quid plura 1 What more was needed for a convent 
of burnt-out monks 1 St Waltheof was translated in 
state to the side of St. Guthlac ; and the news of this 
translation of the holy martyr being spread throughout 
the country, multitudes of the faithfiil flocked daily to 



The Wake. 399 

the tomb, and oflfering up their vows there, tended in a 
great degree to " resuscitate our monastery." 

But more. The virtues of St. Waltheof were too great 
not to turn themselves, or be turned, to some practical 
use. So if not in the days of Ingulf, at least in those 
of Abbot Joffrid who came after him, St Waltheof began 
again, says Peter of Blois, to work wonderful deeds. " The 
blind received their sight, the deaf their hearing, the 
lame their power of walking, and the dumb their power 
of speech ; while each day troops innumerable of other 
sick persons were arriving by every road, as to the veiy 
fountain of their safety . . . and by the offerings of the 
pilgrims who came • flocking in from every part, the 
revenues of the monastery were increased in no small 
degree." 

Only one wicked Norman monk of St. Albans, Audwin 
by name, dared to dispute the sanctity of the martyr, 
calling him a wicked traitor who had met with his 
deserts. In vain did Abbot Joffrid, himself a Norman 
from St Evroult, expostulate with the inconvenient 
blasphemer. He launched out into invective beyond 
measure ; till on the spot, in presence of the said father, 
he was seized with such a stomach-ache, that he went 
home to St Albans, and died in a few days ; after which 
all went well with Crowland, and the French monks, 
who worked the English martyr to get money out of the 
English whom they had enslaved. 



400 Hereward 

And yet — so strangely mingled for good and evil are 
the works of men — that lying brotherhood of Crowland 
set up, in those very days, for pure love of learning and 
of teaching learning, a little school of letters in a poor 
town hard by ; which became, undertheir auspices, the 
University of Cambridge. 

So the bells of Crowland were restored, more melo- 
dious than ever ; and Richard of Rulos doubtless had 
his sharie in their restoration. And that day they were 
ringing with a will, and for a good reason ; for that day 
had come the news, that Henry Plantagenet was crowned 
king of England. 

" 'Lord,' " said the good old knight, " ' now lettest 
thou thy servant depart in peace.' This day, at last, he 
sees an English king head the English people." 

*' God grant," said the old lady, " that he may be such 
a lord to England, as thou hast been to Bourne." 

" If he will be — ^and better far will he be, by God*s 
grace, from what I hear of him, than ever I have been — 
he must learn that which I learnt from thee : to under- 
stand these English men, and know what stout and 
trusty prudhommes they are all, down to the meanest 
.serf, when once one can humoiu: their sturdy independent 
tempers." 

" And he must learn, too, the lesson which thou didst 
teach me, when I would have had thee, in the pride ot 
youth, put on the magic armour of my ancestors, and 



The Wake, 401 

win me fame in every tournament and battle-field. 
Blessed be the day when Richard of Rulos said to me, 
* If others dare to be men of war, I dare more ; for I 
dare to be a man of peace. Have patience with me, 
and I will win for thee and for myself a renown more 
lasting, before God and man, than ever was won with 
lance!' Do you remember those words, Richard 
mine?" 

The old man leant his head upon his hands. "It 
may be that not those words, but the deeds which God 
has caused to follow them, may, by Christ's merits, bring 
us a short purgatory and a long heaven." 

" Amen. Only whatever grief we may endure in the 
next life for our sins, may we endure it as we. have the 
griefs of this life, hand in hand." 

"Amen, Torfrida. There is one thing more to do 
before we die. The tomb in Crowland ; — Ever since the 
fire blackened it, it has seemed to me too poor and 
mean to cover the dust which once held two such noble 
souls. Let us send over to Normandy for fair white 
stone of Caen, and let us carve a tomb worthy oi thy 
grandparents." 

" And what shall we write thereon % " 

" What but that which is there already % ' Here lies 
the last of the English.' " 

"Not so. We will write—* Here lies the last of the 

VOL. II. D D 



402 Hereward The Wake. 

old English/ But upon thy tomb, when thy time comes, 
the monks of Crowland shall write — 

" ' Here lies the first of the new English ; who, by the 
inspiration of God, began to drain the Fens.* " 



EXPLICIT. 



R. CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS, LONDOK. 



OXFORD 
LIBRAffy 



lA^ 



«.-